


The Franck Sonata

by whirligigkat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Classical Music, F/M, Inspired by Music, New York City, Sherlock and Molly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:16:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10554662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whirligigkat/pseuds/whirligigkat
Summary: When Sherlock, violin, is assigned Molly Hooper, piano, as his chamber music partner, it becomes abundantly clear to Molly that he is a Complete and Utter Arsehole. It's too bad that when they play together, the music is...perfect. Through playing the Franck Sonata, they will have to find some sort of accord, or end up killing each other during rehearsal! AU in classical music.





	1. Chapter 1

**A/N: The Franck Sonata is a gorgeous piece of music for violin and piano, in four movements, by César Franck. Every violinist and pianist wants to play this piece, simply for its sheer genius and passion. The added bonus to this piece is that it was written by Franck as a wedding gift to his friend and great violinist/composer, Eugène Ysäye, and his soon-to-be wife, Louise Bordeaux de Coutrai. The piece illustrates the life of lovers: First Movement, the Meeting. Second, The Fight; Third, the Reconciliation, Fourth, the Wedding.**

**THE FRANCK SONATA**

**I. Allegro Moderato: The Meeting**

As I raise my hands to the keys, it occurs to me that it is in these notes that it all started- that _we_ started. It could be ironic, or it could just be perfect. How else could I describe us? There are no words and, inevitably, music more than suffices. The first uplifting question of half a phrase...how is this not my own self when I first locked eyes on that face, all those years ago? It was a fleeting moment, his eyes all but sliding past me- but I knew, even then.

Of course, that was before I ever heard him open his mouth.

**SHERLOCK**

"What's this, chamber listings?" Sherlock asked, peering over John's shoulder.

"Yeah, I've got Shostakovich 2nd Quartet- ooh, that's interesting, don't know that one- and you," John tapped the print-out on the bulletin board with a finger, "You've got the Franck Sonata."

Sherlock made an exasperated sound in the back of his throat, rolling his eyes in consternation.

"What? One of the best sonatas in the repertoire, not good enough for you?"

"Dull. Predictable."

John shifted his cello case on his shoulders, easing the sore muscles in his back. "Yeah, well, you've got... Molly Hooper. As your pianist."

"Who?"

"You're an idiot, you know," he said conversationally. "Any violinist would jump at the chance to have that piece as their assignment- hell, _I_ would. Molly Hooper… I don't think I know her, do you?"

Sherlock gave him a long-suffering look, before turning to stalk off to the rehearsal room.

"Well you could just _say_ so, you arse- why do you never, _ever_ answer? Do you have any idea how incredibly obnoxious- "

"I am well aware, John, and I already gave you your answer. You never do listen, do you?" Sherlock called over his shoulder, as John dragged his cello along and into the room beside him.

**MOLLY**

Our first meeting, so far as first meetings go... well, it was an odd thing. I'd seen him, of course- across a crowded cafeteria, in passing around the campus, in the eternal struggle over practice rooms. I'm sure he didn't remember me, but he- _he_ was difficult to forget. He was beautiful, even then, in his own odd way, like a boy who has grown upwards too quickly for his body to have quite caught up, all angles and penetrating blue-green cat's eyes. When I had read on the bulletin-board that my chamber music assignment was with Sherlock Holmes (and the Franck Sonata to boot) my friend giggled.

_Ooh, he_ _'_ _s that tall one, isn_ _'_ _t he? With the eyes and the hair?_

But I was petrified. And not needlessly, as it would appear.

On the very day that we first met, the day of our first rehearsal- he banged into the room, opening the door so forcefully it bounced off the wall.

"Um, hello, you must be … Sherlock?" I said, surprised and immediately put off balance by his entrance. I stood hesitantly away from the piano where I had been warming up, wiping my hands surreptitiously on the sides of my shorts. He looked at me with an expression of consternation, eyes lingering on my sweating palms. I clenched them into fists quickly, and sat back down at the piano bench, hovering my hands over the keys.

"Molly Hooper, I presume," he said, stalking off to one of the chairs lining the room to take out his violin. He said it like it was the most ordinary turn of phrase in the world. I blinked. And he was English. Like me. How had I not seen that? Now that I looked at him closely, he positively reeked of posh public school mannerisms, and I suddenly felt overly aware of my old shorts and t-shirt.

So I began to play, refusing to think about the fact that Sherlock Holmes could possibly judge me. I kept my eyes on my fingers, running through familiar Hanon exercises and refusing to acknowledge him as he slammed a stand down next to the piano and dropped his music onto it.

" _A_?" he said.

"Sorry?"

" _A_ , could I have an _A_ ," he ground out.

"Oh, um. Yes," I managed to hit an A and squeeze the pedal down, before blurting, "Oh, sorry, did you want it with a Major third? Or minor, I know some people prefer- "

"An _A_ , please, and a little silence would be marvelous, just now," he muttered.

So I sat, holding down the A, and beginning to wonder just how much of an incredible arse-hole Sherlock Holmes really was.

**SHERLOCK**

"What do you have for me today?" he asks, leaning back in his chair with his hands locked behind his head. One ankle rests on his knee and jiggles ever so slightly. _Third cup of coffee. Anxious to be done for the day._

I drop my music onto the stand. "Paganini," I reply succinctly, flipping through the pages of the battered book to rest at Caprice No. 22. It's not the trickiest, true- but I want them all. Not to pick and choose from the easiest, the hardest; I want to have them all in my fingers, at command, ready to go. I'm already placing my fingers in position when Mr. Lestrade says,

"No."

I flick my eyes towards him in surprise. He's grimacing at me, his entire body speaking of aggravation. "No, Sherlock, come on- that's all you've showed me, the entire summer. You've got auditions coming up, don't be ridiculous!"

"It's not ridiculous," I say stubbornly, cocking my head at him and fixing him with an unflinching stare. The one that works on Mummy. Or used to work on Mummy, _must address that_.

"Your new chamber assignment is the Franck Sonata. I checked, d'you know how many teachers even bother to check?"

"None, if any."

"Correct. Exactly. Sherlock, look- you're a brilliant violinist. Not that I need to feed that massive ego of yours, but it's the truth. But you will never, ever go any further if all you play is- is Paganini, or God knows, Sarasate, or Wieniawski- "

"Professor, I fail to see the relevance in bringing you any other music. I don't intend to take auditions, nor do I intend to play anything that is boring."

Lestrade's lips are pinched into a thin, fine line, his eyes narrowed and his jaw jutting slightly in frustration. "You are a complete waste of talent." he says finally, but with no hint of resignation in his voice; just the whiff of a man who is steeling himself to rise to the challenge. I feel the corner of my lips edging into a smirk. I let him see it. "But I could get you a full scholarship, if you had any inclination."

I pause to consider, conceding that perhaps, _just_ perhaps, this may not be such a ridiculous offer. "And what would that entail?" I ask him, knowing that now he will pursue me to the end-game, because Lestrade is nothing if not tenacious. He grins at me then, his eyes gleaming wickedly.

"Start with the Franck Sonata. Show me you're not a…machine."

I glare at him, cross to my case and pull the offending music out and onto the stand. I place my fingers, and begin to play.

**SHERLOCK**

I can't explain this to you, you wouldn't understand it. It's not your fault, you're a goldfish.

Really? I must? Ohhh, very well...It's bow control. That first phrase, it's bow control, it's not giving in to the urge to focus on every note.

This movement is _The Meeting._ What happens when you meet someone? You don't zero in on particular things like a button, or a certain wrinkle- well I suppose I do but that's neither here nor there- the point of the matter is, you gather an impression of a person, based on those few collective details. That's what a meeting is- it's fleeting, it's elegant. When you collect these impressions into music, it is inevitably something _in addition_ \- it is mastering instincts and fusing logic and whatever's skating around that brain of yours that is more than firing synapses and grey matter to create something new.

See, look at you, your eyes have gone all fuzzy and vacant, you haven't listened to a word I've said- I haven't the faintest idea why I even bother. Oh you asked, did you? Well that was your answer, now go scramble to pick up the pieces and see if you can put them together into any semblance of a picture, why don't you?

**MOLLY**

The first time I touched the notes of that Sonata, placed that chord- I felt a little shiver go down my spine.

The piano was a surprisingly decent Yamaha, and I coaxed the voicing out from the mess of hammers and dampers. The snippets of a theme were drawn forth in a soft query, lingering in the air, inviting the violin to join the game.

He had been fussing with the stand, but came to stillness, to readiness, as his entrance drew near. Sherlock breathed in through his nose as his bow came down upon the strings, gently but firm- not an instance of hesitance present in the phrase.

It was miraculous, to play with him. We moved in tandem, in response to each other, the phrases intertwining and parting with a naturalness that I could not have imagined. As the climax of the movement drew near, his eyelids fluttered- the hard-edged lines of his body relaxed into the joy of playing, and I met the swell of his music with my own, carrying the phrase higher, into that plane of ecstasy that summons the artist at every turn, but is so difficult to lose yourself into.

We looked at each other as the movement came to a close, and I saw his cool eyes widen slightly with recognition. The last note dwindled in our fingers, the sound hung in the air.

As he took his violin down, leaning forward to pencil something into the music, it was lost. My breath released, my hands dropped. I wondered if it was my imagination, if I had made it up...but no. I could see how he gripped the neck of his instrument, a shade too tightly.

"Um," I said, cutting through the sudden awkwardness in the room, "I think that went..well?"

"It did." he replied, looking at me suddenly. The pencil clattered back down to the stand. "Which Conservatory are you doing prep at? No, stop- obviously in America."

"Well, um- how-? I mean, yes, in- "

"Boston, yes I know. Explains why I've never seen you before, even though you're obviously from London."

"Oh, well- oh, are we done? But we've only just..started.." Because he had already crossed the room and was now swiftly packing up his instrument, covering and zipping and snicking it in, inelegantly stuffing the music into the case and swinging it up onto his shoulder.

"Molly, I don't think this will work. Thank you for playing with me today."

And he left, just like that, the door hanging ajar behind him. I could hear his abrupt steps down the hallway, an accompaniment to the highs and lows of music issuing from every other door.

I stood, for a few seconds, my hand on the side of the piano, simply staring at the doorway. What had I done? Had I done something wrong? No, of course not- I knew that. And not only that, I had played well, but we- I had never felt such an honest, raw connection. We had played with the intimacy that the piece deserved. _The Franck Sonata_ , I thought, with a jolt- the first movement, the first meeting of lovers and partners. He felt it too, I knew he had, and I held to that thought before I could talk myself out of it.

I didn't play with him again for years.

**SHERLOCK**

His hands trembled as he walked down the hallway, away from her and that insufferably sentimental piece of music. They trembled as he flew down the stairs, and he stuffed them in his pockets resolutely.

He would never admit it- and especially not to John- but the experience had shaken him. _Calm_ , he thought, _Control_ , and collapsed onto the first bench he spotted, in the stark shade of a rather ugly building. He fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, hitting them against his palm and lighting the cigarette with tremulous fingers.

When they played, it had been electric. Like a high he had never experienced before, in his dabblings into assorted drugs when the opportunities had presented themselves. His senses- his hearing, it had been _listening_. Like the difference between seeing and observing, he had listened to her, and answered her, and they had been unshakeable in their unity. His precise control of the bow had begun to crumble, his breathing had heightened and his fingers had shuddered with an over-adrenalined vibrato, he had been carried away in the absolute ecstasy of joyful creation...and it had frightened him. Tremendously.

And he would not tell John.

The smoke swirled around his lungs as he drew it in, stilling the panicked urgency that had been growing in his breast. He blew it out slowly, leaning his head back against the bench with half-lidded eyes.

"Those things'll kill you, you know," said Mr. Lestrade, as he sat down on the other end of the bench. "Give it here, Sherlock, you know I can get you suspended for smoking."

Sherlock glowered at him, but handed the cigarette over, ash dangling over-long at its end. Lestrade tapped it carefully to the side, and brought it to his lips. "No sense in it going to waste, though," he sighed out with a puff of smoke. "So how did the rehearsal go?"

"Not well." Sherlock replied stoically.

"Ah, well," said Lestrade, standing and stretching, inhaling the pungent smoke once again. "I expect to hear the rest of it, next lesson, even if you've scared that poor girl off already. As I'm sure you've done. I'll bet that's her at that window, eh? She's got that wilted look about her, and I know that look because I know _you_." He paused, staring at Molly's silhouette, framed in the window. As if sensing his gaze she turned and disappeared into the depths of the practice room. Lestrade turned to glance at the scowling young man beside him, who looked everywhere but into his eyes, and exhaled forcefully.

"You know, Sherlock, you're a great violinist. And maybe, one day, if we're very, _very_ lucky, you might even be a great musician."

And with those words he dropped the cigarette to the ground, crushing it underfoot, and walked away.

**JOHN**

"You _what_?" said John, in as close to a shriek as he could get while still keeping his voice down.

"Shut up, I didn't do anything. I simply informed her that if she couldn't wait for my entrances, then she had no place playing a Sonata. It is, after all, for violin _and_ piano."

"For the love of- Sherlock, you are an insufferable, pompous, prick. Do you know that? You're just upset you're playing Franck instead of- of- Shostakovich, or Prokofiev or something, no- I know you, don't deny it- and you're taking it out on Molly."

"So what if I am."

" _Apologize._ "

"There's nothing to apologize for."

And there wasn't.

**MOLLY**

When I was young, there was no inspirational, lofty explanation about why I wanted to play the piano. No, I simply had a toy keyboard, and a mother who loved classical music. It was an odd thing, really, her connection to music. It came from nowhere- a chance encounter with Brahms at the record store, and she was hooked for life.

I had a toy tape recorder that I would drag around everywhere, singing and recording myself. I would make up songs, anywhere and everywhere. Everywhere was, most notably, those really long sojourns to the toilet, where I would sit and swing my legs and make up songs for my dog, who stared at me morosely with her head on her paws and kept me company. And then I'd record the songs, and pick them out on the little keyboard. It wasn't long until my parents gave in, and I had my very own piano.

Mum died too soon. She left behind her record collection- piles of haphazard music, Ravel and Vivaldi, Beethoven and Mozart. I found the present she had wrapped up for me, a few months later. Glenn Gould, playing the Goldberg Variations. I turned it on, and sat in rapture, in front of the stereo, and let myself go.

And from then on, there was only the piano.

**_SH_ **

_Sometimes, when one is afraid, one lies. Blatant, ridiculous lies. In this instance, a lie meant to ensure that I would never have to be in a room with Molly Hooper and her piano again._

_But through the riddled blanket of lies, points of truth show. And these truths can be connected to create any myriad of faces._

**A/N: Chamber music assignments are usually given at summer music festivals to the students, to give them the opportunity to learn new chamber music and meet new people. Chamber music is music played by two or more- generally up to eight- people; anything more is often called an ensemble.**

**Hanon Exercises are a book of exercises for piano by Charles-Louis Hanon, and are considered something of a Bible for the pianist- with a huge love/hate relationship.**

**When Sherlock asks for an 'A': this is how musicians tune their instruments to the piano. The pianist plays the note 'A', sometimes accompanied by a couple other notes (Major or minor third), and the violinist- or other instrument- tunes accordingly. In an orchestra, everyone tunes to the oboist's A.**

**Nicolo Paganini wrote some of the most difficult violin repertoire, and it is mentioned in canon that Sherlock often played very technical works. The 24 Caprices by Paganini offer a perfect way for every violinist to show off, as do the works of Pablo de Sarasate and Henryk Wieniawski.**


	2. Chapter 2

**II. Allegro**

**The Argument**

"…Final assignments include a presentation and performance of a Sonata or Duo from the following list; you will be pairing off to complete the project. Bach Harpsichord and Violin Sonatas, any of the six…Yoonjin and Frank, why don't you take that. Mozart K 424, that's violin and viola…anyone? Excellent, Min-Sun and David. Brahms first Clarinet Sonata, Sally obviously, and- Christine, alright. Franck Sonata- "

"Sherlock and Molly started that piece and never finished it, I think they should do it," supplies John helpfully. Sherlock's head has snapped around so quickly you can hear his neck crack, eyes narrowing in disbelief and betrayal as John smirks behind his hand. Molly's eyes are round with horror, her mouth half ajar in an unheard protest.

"…Yes, that would be fine, Sherlock and Molly for the Franck Sonata…that leaves the viola and cello Duos, John and Mary that'll be you- Piazzolla La Calle 92 and the Hindemith Scherzo. Any questions..?" The remainder of the lecture is, none too sadly, lost to the records, as John sits smugly with his arms folded across his chest, Sherlock hissing at him with the venom of a snake, though it doesn't quite reach the fleeting look of anxiety in his eyes.

"…is there a problem, Sherlock? John?"

Sherlock clears his throat, straightens his jacket, flicks a nonexistent crumb from the edge of his sleeve. "Yes, there is. I would…prefer not to play with Molly, if it's just as well." he says, face blank except for the small furrow creasing his brow.

"I'm afraid not, it's all been settled in the book already. Alright, that's it for today, any other questions, see me in my office." says Ms. Fung briskly, collecting her papers into a neat folder and hurrying out before any of them have had much of a chance to move. _In a hurry. Date tonight._

Molly follows suit, her lips pinched tightly together and her bag clutched to her breast, ponytail swinging wildly as she darts for the door.

"Nicely done, you giant git," comments John, eyeing Molly's hurried exit while packing up his own bag. "Oh, Mary- would you mind waiting a mo', so we can set up..?"

Mary flashes him a quick grin, "I'll be outside, yeah?" and leaves John with a little smile as she steps out of the classroom. Sherlock's eyes flick between the two of them, and he pushes a sigh out exasperatedly. "Oh for Christ's _sake,_ you've only just dumped the other one- "

"No, no, we had a mutual- "

"It's never _mutual_ , John. And _why_ did you volunteer Molly? It's completely imbecilic, this _need_ you have to push me at women, John- I've told you once if I've told you a hundred times, I only want the violin. I only _need_ the violin. So _stop_ this idiocy, or so help me- "

"What? What are you going to do, Sherlock, find another flat-mate that you can drag out of bed at 3 in the bloody morning to confirm that _yes_ , that passage is in tune? I won't be doing that forever, even being your- your best mate, I won't, I can't, because- I'm _26,_ Sherlock, and one day I'll meet someone and I will move out, and- and you won't be alone, you'll never be _alone_ , but I won't _be_ there, always, all the time…" and John grinds to a halt, because the look on Sherlock's face is so perfectly dispassionate, and yet so vulnerable.

"I hope you'll be happy with her, then, John, whoever she is," Sherlock snaps, before sweeping from the classroom, back ramrod straight and tense with apprehension. John stares after him for a moment, before stuffing his notebook back into his bag and muttering, "One day, you'll thank me."

The classroom is left in its own blissful silence, for just a moment, before the next pack of hot-headed college students pack their way in.

**MOLLY**

New York City. It had become more of a home to me than London ever had been- but I suppose that came with the _no-rules_ mentality that was a college student's first year. But never mind the overwhelming opportunity to do anything- I could take a two hour walk in Central Park, just five minutes from my dorm room. I could shell out fifteen dollars to stand through the entirety of _The Magic Flute_ at the back of the Met. I could stare at a Rothko painting at the MoMa until the colors bled together into something new and fantastic, present every time I blinked my eyes. I could order take-away at 1 in the morning. I could smoke hookah in the Village. I even knew where I could get cocaine, if I felt so inclined. (Ironically, from a bassist on 125th St.).

This City, with it's smelly stinking subway, with it's art, it's music and poetry and insanity, was my cultural playground. I embraced it. And, I'll admit, I was lost in it, for at least a semester.

Back where I left you, in my high school years- it had been a whirlwind of preparation for what felt like dozens of auditions- but was more like seven. It was preparing for a senior recital, preparing for the last orchestral concert of the year, the last chamber music concert of the year- and from this frenzy of activity, it was suddenly- over. The entirety of your recent existence, charging forward to be the best you can possibly be for _ten minute auditions_ …I wouldn't call it exhausting, even though it is definitely also that. It is _all-consuming_. Every waking moment you tally the amount of practice time you can rack up in a day. Which piano room did I sign up for today? Was it the new Steinway, or that sad and semi-decrepit Schimmel off the hallway or, God forbid, the piece-of-shit Kawai upright that shouldn't _ever_ grace a prep-school's presence?

I gathered my repertoire to myself, over the years- pieces by Bach, Beethoven, Schubert, Chopin, Liszt, Rachmaninoff, Prokofiev…the list could go on. I coaxed them all into existence, took pride in every one of them. My Senior year of high school, I did almost nothing but practice. Five hours was a good day, but not a great day- academic classes were an appalling waste of time, and I skipped as often as I could manage without failing. Breaks were in the form of ten-minute naps under the piano. Practice rooms were savagely guarded: I ate, drank and breathed the piano.

It was admirable, really- even I can admit that. But the silliest, most shameful, niggling tiny part of my brain always remembered _him._ So when I heard he had been admitted to Curtis, some little part of me went into overdrive. I _had_ to go there. No matter it was the best music school in the world; no matter there were only three openings for piano next year- not only would I study with the best professors, _he would be there_.

Like I said: shameful. Stupid. So _unbelievably_ ridiculous that I don't think I ever really admitted it to myself until much, much later. And anyway, was it really so terrible to strive for the best?

Obviously, it wasn't to be.

My audition wasn't bad, or anything- no, I didn't get into Curtis. I passed the pre-screening, but I didn't even make it to the second round. I sat on a bench in the lobby after the audition- which I thought had gone fairly well- next to an equally nervous, curly-haired girl, waiting for the results to be posted.

She made the next round. I didn't.

When I went to Juilliard in the fall, toting one suitcase of clothes and one of music, I met my roommate- and it was the same girl from the audition. Some small part of myself found a savage pleasure in her appearance- _she didn't make it either._

I kept to myself, mostly, during those first few years in the City. My roommate, whose name was Chanah, became a good friend, and in our third year we rented a flat together in Brooklyn. I managed to find a cheap, lopsided little upright and we moved it in with us, with complaints only from the uptight writer next door. _I'm meditating,_ she would say, _can't you play later?_ Never mind that this was a near daily occurrence, most often in the middle of the afternoon. I might add that she used to call the police on us, and what can an officer do, when the source of the trouble is two nice girls that play the piano? She moved out eventually- and I'm quite convinced this was entirely our doing. We bought a pint of posh gelato and drank champagne the day she left, and took turns practicing increasingly bombastic music till even the delis refused to take our delivery orders.

I was a good pianist- _am_ a good pianist. I worked hard, neglected most of my academic classes, struggled with keyboard skills, excelled at ear training. I won the Concerto Competition one year, with Bartok's 2nd- a surprise to more than just myself. I even had a boyfriend, for a short time- but I eventually realized that he was unequivocally _boring_ \- that his plan involved getting an orchestra position God knows where, and settling down to have a family. I wasn't interested: my life, I told myself, just _couldn't_ be that boring.

Then _he_ came.

**REHEARSAL I**

"Sherlock!" He was walking swiftly down the hall, his case at his hip, peering into practice room windows for an empty room with increasing frustration. He turned and waited as I hurried up to him. As always, his face was a carefully controlled mask as he looked down on me. I felt the whips of butterfly wings in my stomach as he said, "Yes?" And then I tried to squash all the butterflies, violently, because there was _nothing_ more stupid than having a crush on Sherlock Holmes.

"We need to, um, schedule our rehearsal, I thought maybe Thursday- "

"Why not now?" he asked, his eyes pinning me with their intensity. I froze.

"Now?"

"Yes, now, obviously- have you got anything better to do, right now?"

"Well, um, I suppose not, but I'd really rather practice a bit more- "

But he was off already, scanning the corridor for a free room. I hurried after him, bag bouncing at my hip.

"Sherlock, I'll play horribly! And since we decided to focus on the second movement- you _know_ it's the hardest for the piano- "

He smirked at me over his shoulder, and I felt the unfamiliar sensation of rage beginning to make itself known in my belly. I stopped and glared at him, pulling at the strap of my bag where my hair had gotten caught.

"If you think this is a joke- "

"Nonsense. Ah, here's a room, in we go," and he stood against the door frame, gesturing at me to hurry up. I sighed and entered reluctantly, sitting at the piano while he hoisted his case onto the piano's top and proceeded to take out his instrument. I looked at the poor piano, a battered old Steinway that had scratches more akin to claw-marks over every note on the keyboard. How some people rail away at the instrument, as if it had given them a personal offense- enough to scratch away the very wood with their _nails_ \- well, I will never know.

I gave the keys a swift wipe-down with one of the sani-wipes I carry with me at all times, and looked up to see Sherlock staring at me, his mouth twisted in amusement. "What?" I asked irritably, rubbing at some of the marks on the keys. "On an average day, at least ten people will touch this piano. Twenty, if we're lucky. And then they practice, and _sweat_ , all over the keys. And if that's not disgusting enough, think about the _half_ of those people who don't wash their hands after using the toilet- or worse, after holding the poles on the subway. And _then- "_

"I think I've rather gotten the picture," he interrupted. "On with it, let's play."

And with folded lips, ripe with annoyance, I plunked the music open and began to run through those tongue-twister arpeggios, at a speed I knew I couldn't keep up. But, you see, it was a dare: every line I played, my irritation grew ten-fold. Who did he think he was, after all these years, _still_ the complete arse-hole that I'd left behind? And why couldn't I say a single word to stand up for myself? It was pathetic, and I pounded at the keys, playing much louder than the marking warranted. I glared at him over the top of the music, where he stood waiting for his entrance with one eyebrow raised. And that slim eyebrow, raised in the most perfect of arches, absolutely infuriated me: I dared him to enter my frenzy of notes, the whirlpool of my rising anger.

And he did. Somehow, I hadn't expected him to; had hoped he would stop me and shout at the ridiculous tempo and dynamic- but no. There he was, matching me, note for note, with his own brand of icy fury leveling to my passion, jumping on his entrances as if he couldn't bear for me to have another phrase to myself.

We quieted for a moment, as the music presented itself in my questions, his responses- plaintive and anguished, and I thought, just for a moment, that _If this were a performance, it might not be half bad_ …But then he ruined it, like he always, always does. He seized his next prolonged entrance, full of flicking fingers and sixteenth notes, and _took off_ , staring at me the whole while, as if to emphasize his _complete_ superiority in playing, the way his hands flew across the strings, up and down, while I worked myself into a sweating frenzy with most of the notes slipping into the cracks. And he just _looked_ at me.

I couldn't stand it- the knowledge that he didn't _want_ me- not even for a bloody _assignment_ \- it all came crashing down into cluster chords of fists and elbows on the poor, spent piano. I screamed in frustration, banging my shin against the bench as I stood abruptly, my fingers grabbing at the first thing they came into contact with- and I watched my score sail through the air towards his head. He dodged it nimbly, and his eyes darkened as he whirled to protect his instrument. "Why don't you want to play with me!" I shrieked at him, and his expression turned to marble. "What have I ever done- you know what, sod it. Fuck you, Sherlock."

And then I had to go scoot around him and the piano, to collect my fallen music in the corner of the room while he stood and watched me silently, arms still wrapped protectively around his violin. I scrambled from the room in humiliation.

I was already on the street, heading towards Columbus Circle at a pace that sharply reminded my legs it had been ages since I'd visited the gym, when my phone chirped in my pocket. I ignored it. Into the subway, running to catch a train just as it's doors were closing, and I slumped into an empty seat next to a woman in need of a good shower. The phone chirped again; I pulled it slowly from my pocket, suddenly exhausted from my outburst.

_Next rehearsal at my flat. Mycroft has a 7 ft German Steinway, I trust you'll enjoy it. Thursday, 7:00._

_SH_

I stared, and read it again. I felt the slightest quirk of a smile touch my lips.

**JOHN**

Living with Sherlock Holmes has been nothing else but an experiment in patience. I say this in all truthfulness, with a certain amount of annoyance, aggravation, complete frustration and indignation- and of course, a dash of affection and- all right, admiration. We have been living in this flat for the better part of five years, after Sherlock was 'asked' never to return to the dormitories again. It is in this spirit that I dash up the stairs one Friday afternoon, only to find the Holmes brothers at the ritual that is Tea.

**AN INTERLUDE**

"It has come to my attention that you intend to have a rehearsal involving the use of my piano. Is this true?" Mycroft sits, cross-legged, in an over-stuffed armchair, the thin line of his lips betraying no expression other than mild curiosity.

"Of course it's true, and you already knew the answer. So the question remains, does it _bother_ you, hm? Perhaps you'd rather we use a decrepit practice-room instrument when we've a perfectly good one at hand?"

Sherlock stretches his hands behind his head, stretching out on the sofa and glancing at John as he enters the room. "Pass me my mobile, John. Coat pocket."

"What was that, Sherlock? Would I fancy a cuppa? Why yes, I _would_ , as a matter of fact. Oh look, and it's still hot, how kind of you to think of me. Here's your phone, you git," John grumbles, tossing the phone to Sherlock, who only barely catches it, before collapsing onto the sofa himself. Mycroft smirks at him over the rim of his cup.

"As I was saying, the piano, Sherlock? And who is the pianist in question?"

"That would be the lovely Miss Hooper," says John, in a passable imitation of Mycroft's prim posturing, and pours himself a cup of tea.

"Yes, quite," snaps Sherlock. "Thursday at 7. You've got Composer's Orchestra during that time anyway, and I'm quite certain Moya's atrocity for tuba and orchestral accompaniment- what was it called? Ah, yes, _Memorex_ , that's an inspired title, by the way - will keep you occupied for far longer than necessary."

"D'you think that's the medication he's on, Memorex? Going for an auto-biographical take?" John chimes in, blowing at his tea as the steam rises from the top of his mug.

"Don't be absurd, he's just using an _edgy-_ that's the word they're using now, isn't it?- name to keep people from forgetting it and, oh look, there we've all remembered it. And anyway he's got a not-so-hidden stash of valium for the j _ust-in-case-jitters_. Molly doesn't _bang_ , Mycroft, you've nothing to fear for your precious piano, she's perfectly capable- "

"I'm _aware_ that she plays adequately- "

" _More_ than adequately- "

"I am simply not _comfortable_.."

"For _God's_ sake Mycroft, leave it!" and he's up and out of his chair quicker than you can snap your fingers; the stairs quiver and creak, and the strains of Paganini hit their ears a moment later.

"This is very good tea," says John, chocolate biscuit crumbs spilling down his jumper.

**REHEARSAL II**

She takes a breath and hits the buzzer, toying nervously with the fraying adjustment straps of her backpack. Three seconds…four pass by, and the door buzzes back at her, waiting to be opened. Two flights of stairs up, and she lifts her hand to knock before the door is flung open. She steps back, surprised, as Sherlock fills the doorway and pushes past her down the stairs.

"Oh, um, we're not…rehearsing, then?"

"Of course we are, downstairs," he calls over his shoulder, already at the first landing. She hurries after him into the flat, down the hall, and stops short at the sight of the piano.

It is a curious thing that musicians can rarely afford beautiful instruments for themselves. Given the cost of a quality piano (a new Concert Grand Steinway goes for something like $80,000), how on Earth can a musician ever hope to own one for themselves? Although, Molly supposes, it must be much worse for string players. She runs her hand along the length of the piano. It is a lovely and cared for instrument, she can see; with no dust whispering across the soundboard or the initials of students painted onto the metal casings. No, it is all shining long lines and crisp, clean action. She drags her nails gently along the strings, enjoying the glow of sound that shimmers up.

"Do you like it?" he says. She turns, smiling to him. He's watching her with those cat-eyes, and she shivers slightly.

"It's wonderful," she admits, shrugging her backpack off and sitting at the bench. The keys are immaculate, the action brisk, and she sets off in a Chopin etude to awaken her fingers.

They go through the motions, again, of warming up, the tuning and tweaking of stands and pegs and knobs. The room is charged with a mixture of nervousness and apprehension, as they both barely dare to look at each other from the corners of eyes.

"Why did you say you don't want to play with me?" she asks suddenly,

He sighs out through his nose. _That again, she'll never let it go._ "Because I work alone. And because John has a ridiculous notion that I need someone- a _girl_ someone- in my life. Other than him. Because he is obviously a girl and wants nothing more to do with my advances."

He says it so quickly, so convincingly, that is all she can do to squeak out a barely audible "Oh- oh, alright, well- " before he's back with one quirked eyebrow and, "That's sarcasm. I trust you are familiar with it."

He's raised himself from his seat and stands close to the piano, gesturing with his bow at the music. "Shall we play, then?"

She smiles at him, then, a timid thing that seems to reach forth and lift the corners of his mouth as well. The arpeggios begin to pour out of her fingers, and she can see him watching her, _always_ watching her, with eyes that dart between her face and hands. And when he brings his bow down onto the strings in that first, fierce phrase, the unity of spirit is apparent again, somehow- like it was all those years ago. She shivers with the memory, and for all of a minute, it is _easy._ The one-ness, the pleasant quiver she feels running up her spine- it's not romance, not the type of mushy stuff that gets thrown up on the television for no particular reason; it's not the sudden electric thrill of _partners for life_ , or a _be my soulmate!_ spelled out in so many notes- no. It's truth, in the most honest form that human beings are capable of giving one other: music. And the music is an _angry_ truth, a hurt and stunted blossom of persistent hope.

She doesn't look at him. She doesn't _have_ to look at him, and she feels it as he does, when the music melds with their fingers and in the air and in the tiniest hollows of their bodies and beings. It is a peculiar sort of joy, the type that _hurts_ a bit, to connect with the person that you just might love in this way. He moves, she moves. And she realizes the comfort that is most beautiful about music: when you ask a question to the cosmos, _it is answered._ So she thinks, _Maybe_ , and lets the anger lose it's potency, allows it to be pushed to the side, just a little, and answers him with hope.

And she feels his reaction, immediately: like the instruments have been thrust slightly off balance, and suddenly they are milliseconds apart, instead of one sound. She looks at him then, and his eyes are cool, shuttered, vacant in the face of the music.

The movement is finished in a wash of cold that is far, far worse than the graceless heat of anger.

**THE CLASS**

She's bitten her nails down to the quick, and now they hurt. Every time she draws her thumb across the tortured pad of a finger, a little shock of pain travels up through her fingertips. She gnaws on them anyway, all through Min-Sun and David's Mozart, through the harpsichord and violin Sonata. She's trying to stop herself from looking sideways at Sherlock every thirty seconds, and settles on every few minutes instead, but it's not doing any good- he's slouched in his chair, violin lain casually in the crook of his arm, the rosined bow leaving marks across his lap. She starts, as the applause crackles through the room, and joins half-heartedly, feeling her stomach starting to tighten with nerves. It's not like she's never performed before, she reasons, it's just _always_ nerve-wracking to play in front of her peers. And then there's… _him…_ that stuck-up sod, whose pale face shows only traces of _boredom_.

"Molly and Sherlock, you're up," says Ms. Fung as the applause dies down, and before she knows it she's in front of the class, seated at the piano bench, trying desperately to breathe in slowly through her nose, out through her mouth, in through her nose…

He stalks to the front of the classroom, adjusting the stand to a height meant to emphasize that he's only got a stand _because it's a requirement of chamber music_ , and not because he hasn't got it memorized. He peers over at Molly, who is clearly attempting to stifle her nerves, and suppresses a flash of irritation. He clears his throat pointedly, one sharp eyebrow raised at her, and with a whoosh of breath, Molly lets her fingers begin to play.

It's much too slow. And _weak_. Such weak playing! He sees that she feels it, and has her nose wrinkled in irritation, struggling to master the adrenaline and unsteadiness in her fingers. And so, obviously, in an attempt to pull things along -it _is_ chamber music, after all, he gets just as much a say as she does- he barrels in, pushing the tempo forward. Each entrance comes in quick succession, the sound of the rich G string cutting through the piano's texture- but he's also cutting _her_ off, stepping on her notes in an effort to push her forward. He smirks to himself, knowing that they must sound _terrible_ , and looks sidelong at Molly, her fingers flailing every which way.

_Is he smirking?! Does he think this is funny, because it_ bloody _well is_ not _and…ohh, the bastard wants to play fast, does he? Alright then, Sherlock Holmes, two can play at this game.._

He's out of tune. Oh, good God, and there goes that slide. He hates the fact that he's beginning to lose control, because he _never_ loses control- but the fact remains that he simply couldn't be _bothered_ to practice this since the last rehearsal, and no, he is _not_ over-confident, thank you very much.

_What the hell is she doing? Oh, faster, is it? Lucky for you, Miss Hooper, I have significantly less notes._

He misses a whole passage. His fingers fall of the fingerboard with a horrible squeak and plucking sound, and as he dives for the next high note, the hair of his bow gets caught on the bridge. He sighs loudly, ploughing through, and chances a glance at John.

John is determinedly studying his nails. There is a tick in his jaw.

_Oh my God, he's playing worse than me. He's playing_ worse, _it's a complete sodding nightmare, but at least I'll have this to hang over his head for the rest of his life- completely NOT my fault._ FUCK _you, Sherlock, FUCK YOU._

Her hands are beginning to lock, and her heart pounds in her chest. Never, _never_ has she ever given a performance as bad as this. She thinks, in the part of her brain that is above the red panic, that if this is the most humiliating point of her life, then at least it'll be over and done with soon and she can console herself with a pint of Ben and Jerry's when she gets home.

When her left hand spasms, she slams it onto a cluster of black notes.

_Ohgodohgodohgodohgod… I will never spare another glance for you, Sherlock, never, ever again…_

His bow skips as her cluster chord crashes into his ears. He can see John jump in his seat slightly, and it is then that he decides, _Sod this._

They have reached the coda: _animato poco a poco._ He slams on the gas, as it were- fingers flying recklessly over the assaulting arpeggios, bow bouncing madly over the strings. He takes his eyes off his fingers, and looks at her, a wild grin spreading across his face. _I can play FAST,_ it says.

She glares back at him for that one moment, and then looks down at her fingers, desperately racing to catch up. It's just one disaster after another, and she seems to be watching her hands move as if on autopilot, and it's in a moment of wonder, where she has completely lost Sherlock in his madness and stolidly reaches towards the ending- that she realizes he has finished. He has finished the movement, and here she is playing like an idiot. Her hands falter, and she looks at him.

_I WIN!_ His face says, _I win, I got there first, and you were measures and measures and MEASURES behind._

There is silence in the classroom.

_Nothing for it,_ she decides grimly, and bangs out one last, massive D Major chord, before getting up quickly and walking out of the room.

**ELSEWHERE**

"That was..spectacularly bad," John says, as they tramp through the streets the cold wind slicing through their coats and biting at their cheeks.

Sherlock is silent, his face white and unmoving.

"You ought to apologize to Molly…"

He wheels, stopping to face his friend, the ever-present cello case bobbing alongside.

"Not good?"

A sigh, deep and exhausted, blows out through John's lips. "No, Sherlock. Not good."

In the aftermath, as Sherlock sniffs at his final grades for the semester, he is not at all surprised at the ripe little _D_ that graces their joint project.


	3. III. Recitativo: Reconciliation

**III. Recitativo: Reconciliation**

Five years later finds Molly Hooper wrapped in her bathrobe, curled in a faded blue armchair as the wisps of steam rise gently from her mug. She twiddles with the fuzzy ends of the ties, and leans her head back, savoring the fact that _this is a free day_. Never mind that she technically gets one of those a week; it's always filled with projects to be done and practice and problems, problems, problems. No, today- today is a day devoid of the abominable brats she teaches and their need to smear their bogies all over a clean keyboard; a day where she will not _once_ , not a single time, have to ask, "So tell me, { _insert absolute uproar of a child's name here},_ what note is this?" (What is this obsession New York City parents have with naming their children things like _Salome?_ Who does that!) They are all sick, thank God, every, last, one of them. It's a bloody miracle.

Tom dashes into the sitting room, straightening his collar and grabbing for his violin case propped by the door with one hand while attempting to pull on his long coat with the other. "Dunno when I'll be back, Molls, you know that damnable old coot will keep us for as long as he pleases…"

She stretches, lazily, setting the mug down on a coaster before standing to help him with his coat. "He's a conductor," she comments idly, "isn't that what they do best? Besides, I think you might be waiting for _me_ anyway, think I'll go to a museum, or something…free days are just so _luxurious.._ "

"I'm jealous! All that easy time, while I'm stuck rubbing the back of my neck and waiting for the oboes to play in tune? Not a chance, I'll be there hours and hours and hours!"

She swats him playfully before they share a peck, and Tom's out the door and she is left alone in blissful silence. Until, predictably, the neighbor's yappy little rat of a dog breaks into it's routine of high-pitched squeaks and scrabbles at the door. Toby jumps down from his perch on the ottoman and winds his way between her legs, meowing at her in a way that clearly articulates his distaste for such abhorrent creatures. "Guess that's our cue, then isn't it?" she asks him mildly, leaning down to scratch his ears as he butts his head against her palm.

**MoMa**

The lovely thing about a painting is that _it is reliable_ , like people never are. There is some strange crossroad that articulates a good painting: a second is captured in paint, evading words and instead arresting the spirit in the outline of a story. But- look! It is not _one_ moment held in a painting, but rather a myriad of moments: millions of brush strokes creating this one, greater whole. And there is something intriguing in this conundrum of art, Sherlock thinks, as he walks from painting to painting, gloved hands clasped tightly behind his back. There is something wholly upright about this form of expression, something that completely lacks in the sentimental but instead grasps at a fact of human essence. It eases him to see each stroke individually, as an analysis of just the right amount of pressure and paint, or lack thereof- and the immeasurable strokes and attention to detail that creates the fullness of a work of art. Essentially, he thinks- as the coolness of his blue eyes flick from the wide painted eye of a lion to its surprised paw- a painting is one very long, breathless moment; the textured paint an endless reflection of his thoughts.

It happens when he's taken a moment to stare down one of de Kooning's Women- her eyes wide and unnerving, his gaze tracing a hasty stroke across the outline of a mouth. But there is the flick of a brown ponytail from the next room, and, like a bird finding its reflection, his eyes snap to attention. Because he knows that tiny woman in the gallery over, _that is Molly Hooper_.

So he does what Sherlock often does in situations involving other people: he turns around and, for once, his mind on autopilot, walks into the adjacent room.

~0~0~

"Sherlock?"

He freezes. Those three damnable cubist musicians are laughing at him from their two-dimensional world. He silently catalogues all possible reactions he might employ in this situation, and neglects to do any of them.

"Sherlock, is that you?" She asks again, tentatively drawing near, reaching a hand out to touch his elbow.

He chooses Reaction No. 17, and walks quickly away.

She's left with a mouth only slightly ajar, a hand poised in midair, and the humored face of the cut-paper clarinet player staring down at her.

**~0~0~**

"He paints such exquisite nudes, doesn't he? All long, those fingers..it's really amazing, don't you think?"

She glances at him from the corner of her eye, but there's only the tail end of a long coat whipping around the corner.

**~0~0~**

Through a room filled with dark rain, he glows against the droplets. She takes a moment to admire the effect, and catches his eye- is he just a bit panicked, or is she imagining it? Smirking to herself, she walks towards him, the rain pausing as she moves. "Maybe we should've brought umbrellas," she comments idly. She thinks she detects a flicker of lips turned upward, before he practically runs from the room, catching a sprinkling of drops on his shoulders.

**OOF**

"Oof," she says.

"Oof," he echoes, before stalking off in the opposite direction, coat-tails billowing over an invisible wind.

_Progress,_ she thinks, smirking, and saunters from the gallery in his wake.

**NO. 14**

"This one's my favorite. Always has been. I like to stare at the red, without blinking, and just let it wash over me. And when you look anywhere else, that red just _stays_ with you. And the blue underneath, it becomes something else…"

"No it isn't."

She's too shocked to actually say anything, and he takes the momentary silence to clear his throat. "It, um, is not. Your favorite. Anymore. It used to be, but you've since…grown in taste. And style. Though the same can't be said of your clothes. You now favor Chagall, it speaks more to your…whimsical attitude."

She stares at the red for a moment longer, letting it cloud her vision, before turning to ask him "How on _Earth- "_

But she's waited one second too long, and he's off again.

**ONE**

He finds her again at ONE, sitting on the bench and staring thoughtfully at it, bag perched on her knees. He approaches carefully and seats himself beside her, deliberately removing his gloves and placing them on the stone of the slab.

"I always rather thought my brain might look a bit like that," he finally murmurs, gesturing towards the painting in front of them. It looms large above them, all inarticulate grace and confused expression, the splashes of paint dotted in a conundrum of clarified delirium. This is the type of painting that has a method to the madness, but it is hidden so far away beneath the layers that it leaves one with the simplicity of awareness.

She cocks her head to the side, eyes narrowed in thought. "It does suit you, in a way- it's all tangles. You're not nearly as in control as you think you are, Sherlock."

"Actually I think you're wrong in that. Now if you'll excuse me- " he rises abruptly, reaching up to pop his collar and resume his brooding figure.

"Really? That's it, pop your collar and you're off? I haven't seen you in years, and this is all I get?"

"I- erm- "

She approaches, looking up at him from her small height. She's wearing an absolutely abhorrent jumper, he notices- complete with bits of fluff and preening kittens. "Fancy a coffee, Sherlock?"

"With um, you, you mean. Of course that's what you mean. And I don't drink coffee. So um, no, sorry." Her face falls, and he takes the opportunity to pull his coat around him and dart away.

**~0~0~**

Ten minutes later and she is nursing her pride with a hot cup of cocoa and a sandwich, sitting in the little museum cafe. She's justifying the ridiculous prices with the oddness of the day, wondering if the universe is ultimately messing with her. She sighs, and takes a bite of the sandwich- it's really quite mediocre- and stops mid-bite because there he is- _again_ \- standing at the counter ordering a bloody _coffee._ And as he turns, she catches his eye. Pointedly. She raises her eyebrows at him and, with a smirk, he pays for his order and makes his way over to her little table by the window.

"Coffee? Really?" she asks him over the rim of her mug.

"And you're having hot chocolate. I suppose I had a part in that."

"What makes you think that?"

"Oh I don't know, being written off by an old…friend, perhaps?" He smiles at her then, and all irritation she might have felt vanishes in the single smile she's seen that reaches his eyes. The old, familiar flutters rise up in her belly, and she can feel the beginnings of heat rush up her cheeks. In the following minutes, where they talk idly for the first time, she thinks, _ever;_ as if they were two friends spending a perfectly normal Tuesday afternoon at the museum, all thoughts of Tom are driven from her mind. She toys with the engagement ring on her finger, pushing the little diamond round and round with her thumb.

"Congratulations, by the way," he says, glancing at the ring. Immediately it's as if someone's put up some invisible screen between the two of them, as she remembers, _Tom_ , and guilt, guilt like a flush of fever pours through her. She covers her left hand with her right, bites her lip, and moves to finish her cocoa.

"It's, um, been just over a year now, actually- he's a- "

"Violinist?"

She blushes violently at this, reminding herself emphatically that there is _no_ reason that this should be embarrassing, that, after all, they _are_ the largest section in the orchestra, so- "Yes, actually, with New York City Opera- "

"Hm," he hums noncommittally, stirring his coffee.

"What?"

"What? Oh, nothing…he ought to get another position though, that organization's going under."

"Wha- How do you know that?"

"Oh come, Molly," he sighs exasperatedly, "How could they not, with the Met in practically the same building? It's an impossible situation."

"Mm, well, I suppose…"

The silence begins to unfurl itself around them, as she picks at the edge of her sandwich. He's staring at her again, in that unnerving way she both remembers and relishes- and she knows that it's time to leave before she does something incredibly stupid, like ask to see him again. _Tom_ , she thinks, _I love Tom, and Sherlock is, and forever will be, a massive git. Most of the time. Even if he was quite alright just now. More than alright, actually._ _Practically charming, really._ And on that thought she's up and out of her seat far too quickly- there goes the chair, falling with an echoing clatter. Sherlock stares at her, with that slim eyebrow raised, and she groans inwardly. _Molly Hooper, get ahold of yourself!_

"I, um." she stammers. Definitely a _not-in-control-in-epic-proportions_ moment. She loops her scarf hurriedly around her neck, just a pinch too tight. "Well! It was, um, good to see you, Sherlock, and, um, we'll I'll just be off, shall I? Good, good to see you!" It's said in a voice far too high-pitched and squeaky, and she's off at the fastest pace she can manage without actually running.

And when she's stumbled down all the stairs and pushed her way through the streams of tourists mulling by the revolving doors, she realizes she has- ridiculously predictably- forgotten her bag. She considers just _leaving_ it for a good ten seconds, weighing the percentage of mortification against the hundred-ten dollars she's just paid for a monthly metro card- _I'll just buy another one. It's just money. It's just money._ But, though money _is_ just money, there is also the annoying fact that she spent three hours of tooth-grinding and persuading small bratty children to put their fingers in the right place on the piano to _get_ that money. And with a massive sigh, she turns- to find Sherlock looming behind her, with a smirk that would make even the best of us swoon.

"You forgot your bag." The low richness of his voice catches her off guard, as she stares into his eyes, twinkling with amusement. Obviously she forgets to speak- how could she not?

"And you were debating whether or not to leave it." That kicks her into gear, and a scarlet flush begins to creep up her cheeks and down to her neck, leaving utter embarrassment in its wake. "I, uh," she begins, but he cuts her off with a step even closer, gently sliding the bag onto her arm.

"I'm glad to see you, Molly Hooper," he's gotten closer- too close, and she opens her mouth to ask "Wh- "

But he is so close, and the kiss on her cheek is light, yet scalding. His breath ghosts against her neck, making all the little hairs stand on end, as her eyelids close for just a moment too long.

When she opens them again, he is gone, and only the bag on her arm is evidence that it happened at all.

**~Enter Watsons~**

"Pass the chips," says John, around a mouthful of chips.

"How many times do I have to tell you, they're _fries_ \- you've got a Green Card, for Christ's sake, try and at least _talk_ American?" Mary pushes a curly blond lock from her face as she prepares to bite into her burger. She eyes it carefully, squashed between her hands with a good load of mushrooms, cheese and bacon oozing out of the sides. "We really need to be eating a _lot_ better," she sighs before indulging in a good bite. "Mmf, but good God, who can resist the siren call of Shake Shack?"

"I was all in favor of a salad," comments John mildly, "I wish it wasn't so ridiculously difficult to find brown sauce. Or vinegar, for that matter." He pokes morosely at the vivid red of the ketchup, and pulls a face. "This is just so… _red_ , food just shouldn't be this brightly colored…"

"Actually it's healthy. When it's bright. I mean food, when it's brightly colored, is healthy."

"I don't think anything in a bottle counts."

They sit for a few minutes in silence, letting the sound from the TV wash over them, before John mentions, "Sherlock ran into Molly again yesterday," and the ends of his words are colored by the gleeful twist of his mouth.

"Oh, you mean, he followed her again and she noticed?" Mary snorts into her beer, and the foam curls around her upper lip. "He's smitten, that one." Her smile pushes the foam up onto her cheek, and there's a hint of mustard at the corner of her mouth. He laughs, inevitably, leaning across to wipe the foam from her face, and leaving a sticky burger kiss in its place before she pushes him away, grinning and spilling the fries across the carpet. "Look what you've done!"

"5- second rule, doesn't matter- "

"I haven't vacuumed in _ages- "_

_"_ D'you think we might, I don't know- help them along, a bit?"

"What, the fries? Well I suppose if there aren't any _super_ obvious hairs.."

"No, I mean- Sherlock. He's been this way about her since…good God, since high school.."

"He has a funny way of showing it, we were both there in college! He was awful to her!"

"Well you know him, he's an idiot. A genius, but an idiot."

As the fries are collected and the rest of the meal is devoured in due course, the dishes are abandoned on the lonely coffee table, and our two lovebirds disappear into the bedroom. The only sounds to be heard are a cavalcade of shrieks and giggles, slowly shifting into the little sounds that float on our breath as love becomes a physical reality.

**MOLLY**

I am in love with Tom. I love Tom. I'm going to marry Tom. Because he's sweet, and funny, and I like spending time with him. He's gentle with Toby. He wants children. He's a good violinist, even if we don't play much together. _Not like with Sherlock_. He always treats me well. He doesn't mind when I burn a roast or want to hold hands. _Would Sherlock ever hold my hand?_ He's handy around the house, and keeps the flat clean. He's smart. _Not as smart as Sherlock_. He's kind. He's sweet and funny. Oh, God, I said that already.

I don't think I can do this. I…can't, I can't! I could, but…sometimes when he's asleep next to me, and I _can't_ sleep…it's never enough. I imagine our life together, the lovely little children we'll have, his position in an orchestra somewhere…he'd probably get a good position, somewhere, maybe even an Assistant chair, and I'd be able to have a good position teaching in a music school…and it is so, _so_ suffocating. My breath catches in my belly and I have to force myself to breathe in, out. In, out. It makes me want to _scream._ It's not that the idyllic little life we'll have together is _bad_ , I just feel…like we'll marry, and _enough of love_ will follow. And the words scald themselves into my brain, because that is a terrible, terrible thing to reconcile to. And the worst bit is, _I know how to love_. Wholly and fully- or at least I've had the taste of it in my mouth and, once tasted, I can't forget…

I don't want to hurt him- of course I don't want to hurt him. But wouldn't going through with it be _that much worse?_ Because whatever happens in the future- and I'm not expecting _anything…_ it can't be this, not here, not now. I can't. I just can't. Does it make me selfish? Does it matter? _Oh, Sherlock…_

**~0~0~**

Many months later, the Juilliard bookstore, in all its pole-up-the-arse loveliness, is all but deserted save for a paunchy, bored looking clerk, and a tall man in a Belstaff coat with the collar turned up. She grins to herself- _Sherlock: recognizable in the flashiest of flashes._ "Well hullo, stranger," The very curls on his head stiffen as he jolts as if shocked, snapping the album he was perusing shut and whirling around.

"M-Molly!" he stammers. Her forehead creases, because Sherlock is one to rarely stammer, or be surprised, at that- but then she notices the album he's shoved back into the drawer and is attempting to push surreptitiously shut. "What's that, then?" she asks, darting forward to pull the drawer back open, and his face sets in embarrassed resignation. "101 Wedding Hits! My goodness, branching out a bit, are we?"

Ah, and there it was, just the faintest tinge of pink creeping up those marble features. "I…John said he wanted this. At their wedding. John and Mary's wedding. He said he would prefer Pachelbel's Canon, Mendelssohn's Wedding March, Ave Maria- "

"Sherlock, I'm quite sure he was taking the piss," she laughs, flipping through the album- and she is rewarded with his mouth left slightly ajar and that gloriously pink tinge morphing into a full blown red. He snatches the book quickly from her hand, stuffing it swiftly back into the drawer and slamming it shut. The clerk shoots a glare in their direction, before resuming the idle thumbing of his phone. " _Morons_ , all of them…"

"All of who? Christ, you can't actually believe _John and Mary_ would want those pieces at their wedding! Of all the clichéd, ridiculous- "

"Yes, yes I'm well aware- "

"You're a _musician,_ Sherlock, we all are! I wouldn't be caught _dead_ with Pachelbel at my wedding!"

"Yes, well, you won't have to, will you?" he snaps tartly, eyeing her bare hand. Her face falls at that, all traces of amusement vanishing in an instant, and she looks so crestfallen that he instantly wishes he could take his words back. The silence hangs between them, broken only by the soft cackling lilts of the soprano singing through the speakers.

"I'm sure it wasn't because of your…appearance," he blurts out quickly, in an attempt to fix it.

"My appearance?" she asks quietly, shrinking in on herself.

"Well, you generally have an appalling taste in jumpers, and clothes- " he gestures vaguely at her baggy ensemble- "overall, more suitable for a ten…? Year old, and coupled with the very small lips and breasts, you might remind one more of a child than a fully grown woman."

It is odd that once hurtful words leave your lips, not only do you know it, but you would give anything for those words to vanish into the air. And, as if whatever niggling little part of Sherlock possessing a moral compass has reared it's blossoming head, the words repeat, echoing and echoing echoing…. _Not good. Infinitely, Horribly, Magnificently Not Good._ _Do something, you complete and utter Arsehole._ But he is frozen in the agony of the moment, knowing he has done the almost impossible and went from _bad_ to _worse_ to _terrible._

"You always say such horrible things, Sherlock," she whispers finally, meeting his gaze. "Every time. Always. Always…But I suppose I shouldn't expect better. Good luck with the wedding," and with her head held high, she walks steadily away, leaving him with a crumpled sense of failure and disappointment, eyes gleaming in the artificial light.

**Notes: MoMa is the Museum of Modern Art in NYC, one of favorite places. The paintings/installations mentioned are:**

**'The Sleeping Gypsy', Henri Rousseau, 1897**

**'Three Musicians', Pablo Picasso, 1921**

**'Anna Zborowska', Amedeo Modigliani, 1917**

**'OOF', Edward Ruscha, 1962**

**'Rain Room', LACMA, 2012**

**'No. 14', Mark Rothko, 1960**

**'One: Number 31', Jackson Pollock, 1950**


	4. IV. Reconciliation, Part 2

**IV. Fantasia: Reconciliation, Part 2**

_(He frowns at the screen, thumbing at the virtual keys that balloon at his touch.)_

Forgive me, Molly. I am sorry. -SH

Sod off, Sherlock- I meant 'bye' when I said it. I'd really just like to be alone. And by the way, _I_ ended it with Tom- not that you would understand the difference.

I am not good with words. I am also not good with apologies. Please accept this one, Molly.

_(Radio silence: ten minutes and counting. Sherlock nudges his phone every two.)_

Molly. Please respond, Molly.

_(Fifteen minutes and counting. The phone lies dead center on the coffee table. He stares at it, hands pressed together at his chin, willing it to vibrate. Irritation roils in his belly, and it occurs to him that he might be hungry. He shoves the thought aside: this is the more pressing matter.)_

For God's sake, Molly, desist in acting the child's part and tell me, now, what you are thinking.

Ah, I see those bubbles at the bottom of the screen- don't stop now, Molly, I know you're writing. You are insufferable.

_(The bubbles stop. Twenty minutes and counting. He silently curses himself for letting his thumbs fly before his mind has caught up.)_

Molly.

Molly.

Molly.

Molly.

Molly.

Sherlock, I'm turning off my phone.

Ah, a response! She lives indeed. Don't turn off your phone or I'll come over.

You don't know where I live.

Try me.

_(She sighs, stretching as she curls herself back up into an old chair with Toby claiming her stomach as territory. It is more than likely, she reasons, that he knows where she lives. He knows far too much than is good for him.)_

You were completely out of order, Sherlock. You need to know that is.. you just can't do that!

_(Radio silence, time estimation 9 min.)_

_(Radio silence, time estimation 45 min.)_

_By this time she has resolutely turned off the phone, put it under a pillow- tucked away and out of sight- and drawn herself a bath, complete with milky foam and sweet-smelling salts. Settling into the water, with Debussy gently playing from the speakers in the other room, she allows herself to relax for the first time in…how long? Had she really been wound this tightly, all this time? Pinched at the lips and mind at full alert? The clenching of her belly slowly begins to unfurl in the quiet lapping of hot water. She allows her cupped hands to rise to the surface, floating with pockets of foamy lather. Looking down at herself, she frowns at her breasts, luminescent in the water and edged with froth. Were they really too small? And what did she care anyway, she liked that they were on the small side and- hang on, had the left one always been bigger..?! Sitting upright a little too vigorously for closer inspection, the water sloshes alongside the edge of the tub…and that's when the doorbell rings. She freezes, listening- maybe it was her imagination? But, no, there it goes again, once, twice, thrice- and she curses to herself, rising inelegantly out of the blessedly hot water and reaching for a towel. By the time she's got her fuzzy rainbow robe thrown on, the doorbell has been pushed 29 times._

**~oo00oo~**

"Coming, coming, coming, keep your shirt on…" she mutters as she pads down the short hallway, little drips of damp trailing in her wake. She peers through the peephole and sees him in all his irritated glory, face lit by the gloomy light of the corridor. _Sherlock. Idiot. Who else?_

The door is pulled open and he almost collides with her, finger poised to attack the doorbell another ten times. "I told you not to come," she says grumpily. Her hair drips onto his shoes and, for once, he looks at a loss for words.

"I, um. No you didn't, actually, you just denied the fact that I knew where you live."

"And how exactly do you know where I live, Sherlock?" she sighs, leaning against the doorframe. _Drip, drip._ She's taking a bit too much pleasure in dripping on his shoes, but she really can't be bothered to give a damn.

"That's a secret," There's just the barest hint of a smirk on his face, and it makes her want to twist her own lips upward. She bites her bottom lip emphatically. "May I come in?"

"Have you been following me?"

He scoffs, wrinkling his nose. "There have been occasions when I have been bored. May I come in?"

"I suppose so…seeing as you _are_ here…why are you here, Sherlock? Shoes off, shoes off, this city is filthy and you're going to walk all over my carpet…" she grumbles as she drifts towards the kitchen to put the kettle on.

"I'm sorry I interrupted your bath," he says, following her into the small kitchen.

"How did you know it was a bath and not a shower?" She asks suspiciously, eyeing him as she dumps tea into the pot. "Green..? You know what, I'm choosing, since you're an _uninvited_ , I get that much at least…" He has the decency, she notes, to look just the slightest bit abashed- but not enough to cut the smart-arse talk for once, unfortunately. "I can hear the water draining, and you look sufficiently annoyed as to make it obvious that I interrupted you, and seeing as there are no suds- "

"Alright, alright, I don't care _that_ much…and it was lovely, no thanks to you…what's in the bag?" He places a Trader Joe's bag gently at her feet, as if in supplication. "Well, um. I felt as if perhaps a…proper apology might be in order," He murmurs, stooping to retrieve the contents of the bag, and produces a slightly sad-looking orchid; the type with tiny crinkled purple flowers hanging off long, thin stems. She melts as she eyes them, just a little- but she's not about to show him that, and bites the inside of her lip. "I know you're more of a..well, I know you like daisies more but there wasn't much of a choice, at this hour." Furtively, he re-arranges the leaves in an attempt to make it look at least a _little_ more presentable.

"Thank you," she says suddenly, "They're, um, lovely." They threaten to tip as she sets them on the counter, so she slams them down- perhaps a bit too forcefully. She catches his wince out of the corner of her eye, and rights the trembling flowers. "So this is your apology?" she asks, turning to face him. His adams apple bobs just a bit- a strange sight on the normally confident man in front of her.

"Um,"

"Because it's a good start." He visibly brightens at this, then tenses, as if readying himself for some unknown onslaught, before blurting, "I am…sorry, Molly. I was very rude. Please forgive me."

"Apology accepted." It's out of her mouth almost before he finishes, and she works hard not to laugh at the expression of dumbfounded surprise on Sherlock's face. "Not so bad, was it?"

"Well, I- no, I suppose, but you really oughtn't to accept quite so qui- "

"Don't jinx it, Sherlock, stay on track," she warns, drawing her hand up to her face to cover the growing grin. He straightens, re-evaluates, cocking his head to the side, before beginning again.

"Thanksgiving is next week."

"So it is."

"Are you, hm. Are you doing anything?"

"Wasn't planning on it- not really our thing, is it?"

"Mary," he rushes on, then stops, clearly not quite sure how to get the words out, brows furrowing in anxiety.

"Yes, Mary what? Keep going, Sherlock, don't stop now or you'll never get it out- "

"Mary's having a Thanksgiving…do. Would you…do me the honor of accompanying me?" His toes, clothed in thin black socks, scuff at the edges of the tiling on her kitchen floor. She can't help but giggle at his awkwardness, and he looks sharply at her, still covering her mouth, mirth reaching her eyes. "Sherlock, I-"

"No, um, it's, perfectly alright, I'll just- see myself out- " He's halfway to the door before she can catch his arm, swinging him around. "No, stop, you idiot, I was just about to say yes and here you are completely botching it again!"

"I'm not- "

"Yes, Sherlock, you really _are_ a moron, don't argue. Yes, I would be happy to go with you." She grins, watching him as he processes the new information, his eyes flicking around her face, collecting her body language into an understandable whole. As if coming to some determined conclusion, he leans in suddenly, clumsily, and kisses her mouth, only to shoot back in a wreck of nerves. His eyes scream panic, and he's about to slip away again, "I'll just be off- " escaping in a strangled sort of voice, but she's there, too close, standing on tip-toe, one arm on his shoulder, drawing him down to her level.

"You, Sherlock Holmes," she whispers, her breath sweet and minty against his face, "are a complete and utter idiot." She kisses him quickly and releases him suddenly, the pink beginning to color her face prettily. "Now put on your shoes and go home, and I'll see you on Thanksgiving. Stop following me." She grins at him, and he shoves his feet into his shoes faster than he can ever remember doing, and is out the door before she can change her mind.

**~oo00oo~**

Tell Mary I'm bringing Molly. She's allergic to cranberries. -SH

Why do you keep signing your texts I know it's you. Also you mean Thanksgiving? -JW

Obviously. -SH

Are you seeing her? -JW

Of course I'm seeing her. Don't be an idiot. -SH

Really? As in…dating? -JW

I won't eat cranberries. Tell Mary not to make that red stuff. -SH

Care to elaborate? -JW

Not overly. -SH

**~oo00oo~**

"That was…Sherlock."

"No surprises there."

"Yeah, well, he's actually coming for Thanksgiving."

Mary looks up from her reading, slipping her glasses up into her hair. "Really? That's…only somewhat surprising, actually,"

John leans casually against the doorframe, crossing his arms in an effort to seem more relaxed and un-giddy than he actually is. "He says he's bringing Molly," and the twitch of his lips easily gives way into a barely suppressed snort, mirrored in Mary's easy grin.

"And are they dating? What's the deal? I'd bet anything he's embarrassed and doesn't count stalking her as a proper date, even if Molly does,"

"Have you two been talking?"

"Yeah, a bit- enough to know the whole story." John's face falls just the slightest bit, "And here I thought I was giving you news," he grumbles.

"Tough luck," she smirks, settling her glasses comfortably back into place and flipping a page. "For what it's worth, you were on a very nice roll, well done,"

"Oh, he says she's allergic to cranberries and that he won't eat 'the red stuff'."

"On principle, I'm sure."

"I'm sure." As he begins to strip off his shirt for bed, her brows crease in thought, mouth quirking to the side. "What?"

"Doesn't he have that big concert of his coming up? In Alice Tully*?"

"Yeah, why?"

"You should find out what's on the program. It's him and that pianist- Jeremy, right?"

"I think so- why?"

"No reason," she says, covering her smile with the edge of her book.

**~oo00oo~**

Molly twists the ends of her braid together into a nervous curlicue, just managing not to stuff her nails into her mouth and bite them into oblivion. She's dressed, she thinks, quite nicely- without the trademark hideous jumper and definitely, _definitely_ not like a ten year old. Instead she's opted for a cozy sweater dress and leggings, spent _much_ too long arranging her braid into a loose herring-bone style, and even experimenting with a bit of casual-but-not-too-casual makeup.

Of course he didn't notice. Or, more likely, he _did_ , but didn't find it exactly relevant.

But he did ask why she hadn't practiced today, noting with the faintest touch of incredulity that the hour she had spent on her hair might have been better suited to finally getting _Jeux D'eau_ up to tempo. To which she, obviously, responded that it _was_ up to tempo, thank you very much. And then he had thumbed through her stack of scores, inevitably scattering piles of Bach and Chopin to the floor.

She stares in dismay at the much-loved and battered score, the cover torn and the dog-eared pages threatening to disintegrate entirely. _The Franck Sonata_ , the bold writing shouts at them. She glances up at him in time to see that he's seen it too, his pale face coloring slightly, his back stiffening as she hastily stuffs the scores back into haphazard pile. "Shall we go, then?" she asks, in the wake of the memories swirling up around them in the suddenly stifling air.

And so it is much later that Molly finds herself twisting the ends of her braid together _again_ , when Mary, the picture of familial good cheer, approaches her with the offer of, "Want a drink?"

"Oh, God, yes," Molly murmurs, following Mary into the kitchen, past the huddle of John and Sherlock and a man she doesn't know, nursing glasses of brandy and arguing over what music to put over the speakers.

"So how is… _that_ …going?" Mary asks, nodding in Sherlock's direction before pulling open the fridge. "And…beer, wine, or something stronger?"

"Erm..what are you having?"

"Something stronger." Mary grins, waving a hand in the direction of the fully stocked bar. "It'll be a long day, and I think Mycroft's coming later- we're all going to need it. Here- let's be bad and get a head start on the boys," she says handing her a small shot of vodka. "Bottoms up, eh?"

They both down the shots with identical grimaces, slamming the glasses down on the counter with a little more force than necessary. "Eurgh," blurts Molly, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand, then sighs. "And there goes the lipstick,"

"You don't need it," says Mary, taking the glasses and rinsing them quickly before stowing them back in the cabinet. "Now, tell me: you and Sherlock?"

"I doubt it's what you think- actually, I'm not even sure what I think,"

"No, it's what you think," she smirks back at Molly. "It's exactly what you think."

"Oh, I don't know, Mary, I mean- you know us, you know how long I've been hung up on him, even with _Tom-_ it's ridiculous, really- "

"You don't even know!" Mary bursts out, then covers her mouth where a little hiccup is forming. "Just- trust me, alright? He's been pulling your hypothetical pigtails since I first _met_ you but, well, you know- he's _Sherlock._ Musical genius, and a complete moron. He has no idea how to handle… _this."_

"But- "

"No buts! _Trust me_. Now, let's see, glass of wine?"

"But- "

"I just said no buts! Here, drink, and I've got to get the rest of the meal on the table."

The strains of Beethoven dance into the kitchen, along with the rumble of moderately awkward conversation and laughter. The unknown man looks mildly embarrassed, and drains the rest of his glass. "Who is that, by the way?" Molly asks, searching for a topic that can't get her into trouble with Mary. "Hm? Oh, you mean Jeremy- he's a pianist, actually, playing with Sherlock in that Alice Tully gig he's got in a couple of days."

"Oh? He didn't mention," The twisting feeling that has been haunting her gut all day suddenly intensifies, jerking her awareness back to _him_ , that ever-present niggle in the back of her head. Mary's snort brings her back to the present, and she glances up quickly enough to see the mischievous look that crosses her face. "What?"

"Oh, yeah, it's part of one of those big festivals, you know, Alice Tully debut, huzzah and all that- but they're only playing part of one concert. Composer-themed, you know the drill."

"Oh? Which composer?"

"Hm? Oh, Franck, I think." She says it too casually, throwing it into the air as bait, waiting for Molly to pounce. And of course, Molly does- her wine goes down the wrong tube and she chokes and sputters, Mary gleefully hitting her back with just a little too much precision.

"What? They're not- not playing the _Franck Sonata_ , are they?" she croaks, eyes tearing with the force of her cough as she wipes at them. _And there goes the mascara_ , she thinks grimly.

"Ohhh, right, I'd forgotten," Mary croons. "That horrible class! See, I told you, pigtails, goes alllll the back to then," she says, positively giddy.

" _What?!_ That was the most _humiliating- "_

"Ah ah, let's drop it, hm? My bad entirely. Now! Let's get this gravy going and then we're all ready to eat."

As the chatter livens with the appearance of food on the table, Mary pulls John into the kitchen with her, under the pretense of looking for "That bottle of wine…you know, the _really good one?_ "

"Which really good one? I wasn't aware any of them were.. that great, what, what, Mary?" he gasps as she pulls his ear closer, one hand grasped firmly on his elbow. She can see Sherlock glaring at them suspiciously and calls, "Just grabbing the wine, sit down, sit down!" His eyes narrow at this, but as she flaps her hand at him insistently he grudgingly sits down, reaching again for his brandy. Mary takes the incentive, pulling John farther into the kitchen where they can't be seen.

"Don't eat the cranberry sauce." She hisses into his ear, a semi-manic grin creeping onto her face, blue eyes twinkling.

"W-what? Seriously? Don't- what's wrong with the cranberry sauce?"

"Keep your voice down!"

"I _am_ \- well, maybe not, but- are you going to serve it? _What's wrong with it?"_

"Look, do you trust me?"

"Not _now_ , you've gone all…loony..not that you don't look, just, just great, did I mention that you look just _fantastic_?" He sputters, as Mary fixes him with a perfectly alarming stink-eye.

"John, just don't eat it. That's all I'm saying."

"But _why-_ "

"You have a very clever fiancée. Now go!" She says, shoving a bottle of wine into his hand and giving him a push.

The turkey carcass lies in a sad heaving mess on the table, little strings of flesh trailing across it like so many ants on a mission. There's a large wine stain at the right hand corner, spilling over onto the floor- there'll be no getting that out of the tablecloth- and a couple of brussels sprouts have bounced out of their dish and are neatly decorating the corners of the room. Mary surveys the carnage with a tired smirk, glass of gin-and-tonic in hand, while her face grows steadily redder. _Well, that went reasonably well,_ she thinks, and giggles at the memory of Molly finally losing her patience with Sherlock's cold insensitivity and throwing a handful of vegetables at him in a fit of fury- which is why there is currently greenery festooning the walls as well as the floor. It could've been worse, really- at least Sherlock perked up enough to smear mashed potatoes into Molly's stockings and, well- who knew _that's_ what it would take to get those two loosened up? If the laughter from the other room is any indication, they'll be leaving together happily enough. If only Jeremy hadn't had to leave so early, poor dear, just the icing on the cake. She snorts to herself, and picks a pecan out of one of the abandoned pies, licking at her fingers.

"Sherlock and Molly just left," John says, walking back into the room and scanning the mess. "Jesus…enjoying yourself, are you?" he mutters darkly, bending down to collect a little mound of sodden vegetables.

"I don't know what you're talking about. Although I really think I've outdone myself this year.."

"Did you put something in the cranberry sauce?" he asks flatly, reaching under the table to collect a few sad strands of turkey. She giggles at him, resting her legs on his back. "I can neither confirm nor deny."

"Christ, Mary!" he shoves her feet off him as she breaks down laughing. "You just gave _food-poisoning_ to a perfectly _sane_ individual to prove some deranged point, that I don't even understand! What's he ever done, anyway, just- _why?!_ "

"Oh, I know, poor thing, but he'll be alright soon enough. He can handle it, it's in the name of _luurrrv,_ " she slurs dramatically.

"I've never seen anyone vomit like that! How could there be a _point_ \- you know it's just ridiculously _mean_ , don't you? Do you even have a _soul_?"

Her free hand flies to her breast, a look of mock horror on her face. "You _wound_ me, dear sir!" But the only response is a glare that finally calms her just the slightest. "Look, he'll be fine- but not soon enough to get all the rehearsals in that he needs to do with Sherlock before the Alice Tully concert next week. Capiche?"

"And… _oh_ , good God, poor Molly…"

"…and _there_ it is. Knew we'd get there. See, I told you- you'll have an extraordinarily clever wife."

Never has a woman felt so exceptionally _smug_ as Mary does now.

**~oo00oo~**

SH: EMERGENCY. HELP ME.

SH: MOLLY. MOLLY. EMERGENCY. I NEED HELP AND YES I AM ASKING YOU FOR HELP STOP SMILING AND COME IF CONVENIENT.

SH: SOD THAT, ACTUALLY, COME IF _INCONVENIENT._ COME AT ONCE. COME _NOW_. COME _DIRECTLY._ STRAIGHT AWAY. PRONTO. POST HASTE.

MH: I would have a much easier time believing you if you used stopped using caps- that takes way more energy than you're likely to give in an emergency. And I'm teaching, go away!

SH: Which one? EMERGENCY!

MH: Morgan. Go away. I'll be off in half an hour.

SH: Come IMMEDIATELY I NEED YOU.

MH: ….

SH: Your help. I need your help. Shut up and come.

MH: 45 min, you wanker. xx

SH: NOW!

MH: switching phone off.

**~oo00oo~**

Molly tramps up the stairs to the flat, suppressing a yawn and all the pent-up irritation of teaching young, less-than-enthusiastic students.

"She just _refuses_ to learn the notes," she says, twisting the knob into the sitting room and setting down her bag. "And it's not even like she's _stupid_ \- she's quite smart, she just doesn't want to do it and decides to make _my_ life a living hell for an hour just out of spite, the little turd." Sighing heavily, she plops into the sofa with an exhausted groan. "So, what's this about then?"

He's sitting in his grey leather chair, leaning forward with his hands steepled together at his chin, glaring daggers at the violin propped up in the tartan armchair opposite. The line between his brows is creased with irritation, enhancing the odd colourless quality of his eyes. " _Jeremy,"_ he practically spits, his focus still drilling imaginary holes into the instrument in front of him.

"What about him? Is he feeling better, anyway? Shame he had to leave so early the other night- "

"No, _obviously_ he's not better, why do you think you're here?" he snarls, eyes finally flicking to meet her gaze. She purses her lips, fighting not to snap immediately back at him. "I don't know, maybe because you just wanted to see me?"

"I said _emergency,_ don't be an idiot."

"Well you might've just been _clear,_ then, about what you wanted! Look, maybe I should just- "

"No!" He jumps, suddenly, to his feet, seizing her by the shoulders and shaking her slightly as she stood winding her obscenely long scarf back around her neck. "No, you brilliant little moron, don't you _see?_ Jeremy's _sick._ Completely useless. Vomiting up bits of stomach tissue by this point."

"Oh- oh my God, is he going to be _alright- "_

_"_ No, shut up, listen, _I need a pianist_. For the Alice Tully concert. Play with me, Molly."

There is a pause in which she goggles at him for what feels like a full five seconds of uninterrupted silence, taking in the enormous _favor_ he is asking of her. He raises that single brow at her- that _stupid_ eyebrow, how in God's name can an _eyebrow_ be sexy- and her voice slams back into her with an exhaled "Ohhhh, no, no way, absolutely not, Sherlock- "

"Why not, it's the _only_ logical way to move forward; Jeremy's out of commission, _I need a pianist_ , we've played together before, not to mention _this piece- "_

"Sherlock!" she shrieks at him, panic building in her stomach and her cheeks flushing already, "You _do_ remember how terribly that came out last time? I don't think I've _ever_ played so badly, or, or been so completely mortified in my entire life! No, _definitely_ not, it's a disaster waiting to happen- I'm not going to embarrass myself in Alice Tully _bloody_ Hall _,_ and besides, that's an incredibly difficult piece, how do you know if I even have it in my fingers!"

"Oh, _admit it_ ," he smirks, peering into her face. "You've been practicing that piece since the last time we played it together. That decrepit, dog-eared edition you keep under all your other scores? It's practically _begging_ to be performed." His voice takes on the silken quality she recognizes when he knows he's being perfectly persuasive; that there is no way she could ever deny him. She looks up at the paleness of his face, the ridiculous arrogance of his lopsided smile and she knows now, as ever, that she could never say no.

**~oo00oo~**

I pick my dress carefully, with many visits to the wardrobe and pictures sent back and forth with Mary, who has somehow become an indispensable part of my life. There is, besides the obvious _how do I look in this dress?_ the rather more subtle aspects of choosing a performance outfit. Can I move my arms with enough ease? Are the straps stable enough to not expose the better part of my bra and God-knows-what-else when I have no rests in the music to adjust them? Can I pedal in these heels? I decide on a shining blue dress, with crossed straps. Added bonus: my bum at least doesn't look like Aunt Carol's yet.

And then there's that eternity spent in the dressing room, with Sherlock pacing a mile a minute, treading a path into the rug. I'm not sure if it's nerves, or just his energy in a purer, more concentrated form- the adrenaline before the storm. I'm ignoring him and every stupid comment he shoots my way: "Don't take it too slow at the beginning, you always take it too slow and then I sound ridiculous hurrying you along like a mother hen for the rest of the movement. Remember, rubato, but not _too_ much rubato. We don't want to sound garish and if you sound garish then I'll be lumped in with the garish. And for God's sake, don't speed up too much at the animato poco a poco. It'll be a nightmare if you do. And- "

"Sherlock," I grind out- my hands are digging through my bag on autopilot, fishing for the bottle of ibuprofen- " _I don't care_. I really, _really_ , don't care. Now sit down, _please_ , and shut up. If not for your own sake, then for mine. And don't you _dare_ touch your violin, _I don't want to hear it_ until we're on stage."

"But- "

" _We'll be fine._ As long as you stop acting like a twat and _shut up._ "

It's a miracle, but somehow I think he's starting to actually listen to me. He crumples onto the sofa with a _whoosh_ of displaced air, his hands coming together as if in prayer, eyes twitching and foot nervously tapping against the carpet. He looks impeccable, his curls pushed to the side, his dress shirt and jacket emphasizing the long, lean lines of his body. But his anxiety unnerves me almost to the point of panic: his antics are the absolute _worst_ thing you want to be stuck in the same room with before a performance. I determinedly turn my face back to the mirror to brush up my makeup one last time, close my eyes and start my breathing and stretching exercises. I can practically feel Sherlock vibrating with the need to tell me how stupid I look doing the tree position in a fancy dress and heels.

And before I know it we're at the stage door, my body locking into performance mode: back straightened, shoulders back, head held high and, of course, a smile. _Breathe._ The clack of my heels on the stage is muffled by the applause, and I see the audience for what they are- that dark mass of heads and limbs with the peculiar responsive energy that is critical to any performance.

I place my hands on the keys. _Breathe._ The merest flicker of memory dashes through my mind: a nervous girl, a young boy much too intense for his age, meeting in a drab classroom, windows open, in the oppressive heat of summer. I feel myself relax into the music, and we begin.

We've rehearsed this time, which is a massive step up from the last couple attempts we'd made. Still, we'd only had _two days_ to put the entire sonata together, and the nervous energy that surrounds us swells up in ebbs and flows- here his bow bounces just the slightest bit, there my fingers slip against a slick key. But I take my time, _Breathe_ \- _just breathe-_ and the music unfurls around us like a cloud of detached emotion, flowing into the minds of those audience members who are willing to listen. I remember all the sneaked glances at him, all the insults thrown my way, and weave it into the music. I find the anger, and the frustration, and the unbidden fervor of joy and rage all folded into one and acknowledge the breathlessness of it, before releasing it in a rush into my fingers.

He glances at me, before the third movement- that _Recitativo-Fantasia_ \- and the intensity of his gaze catches my breath; his lips part slightly, eyelids fluttering open and shut as he begins that agonizing cadenza, and it is like all of the words that will never come to his lips pour out into the sound, as if to say, _This is what I am, and this is what I have to give- do you understand?_ The phrase comes to an open end, and his notes hang in the air, the fermata stretching the rest until my answer is unbearable. His eyes are wide as I respond, into the agonizing tension of an unanswered question, _I understand, and I accept._ The flash of his expression is mirrored only in the nimble tumult of his playing, and from there on the commentary of violin and piano knit themselves together so seamlessly, the way words will never be able to do. His fingers crash with such strength against the fingerboard, and it is almost more than I can do to not simply stop and _watch_ him- and as the piece comes to a close, his hard, cold eyes have become windows into the man that I catch glimpses of, more and more frequently- the man that cannot say, but _feels_ with such burning intensity that it is much easier for him to pack it all away, piecemeal, in his mind. _I've released_ him, it occurs to me- and for whatever that's worth in the future, for however long it lasts, we are together in the passion of that moment- and I realize that there will never, _ever_ be anything quite so breathtaking as creating music with Sherlock Holmes.

***Alice Tully Hall is a performance space in Lincoln Center, which is now part of the same complex as the Juilliard building.**


	5. V. Allegretto: Proposals in Plenty

**V. Allegretto: Proposals in Plenty**

Mycroft plays the violin, did you know? Of course you didn't. His practice mark is barely visible even at the best of times- horrendous lack of callus, perfectly manicured nails- doesn't bode well for a violinist exactly, does it? But that's hardly the point because it's _Mycroft_ , and he is a prig, and doesn't deign to get his hands dirty.

He did, however, at one point, own a violin. (He still does, but that's another matter entirely.) And obviously, I stole it more times than is probably wise. But, as an aspiring pirate, it was necessary not only to plunder and pillage (bunsen burners may have also been subject to the occasional disappearance- who can avoid the siren lure of _fire?_ ) but to also _make use_ of said booty.

So I scraped away at the poor decrepit violin, smeared my hands all over the horse hair, beat and scratched at the battered strings. Incidentally, it is a fantastic irony that the Russian word for violin, _skripka,_ literally translates to _squeaker._ I duly took this information to heart _,_ and one night snuck up to Mycroft's bedroom. I loomed over his sleeping form, dressed in my father's black dressing gown, the hood drawn low over my face, - and _howled_ with that miserable instrument. That may have been one of the best moments of my life- regardless it has certainly contributed to my penchant for surprise-night-attacks, as he fairly wet himself.

But, inevitably, the punishment for the whole affair was to actually learn the instrument- _properly._ But it backfired, as you now see: because I practiced endlessly as a child. Oh, you think that's inspiring, do you? Perhaps I was a keen and rosy boy, with a mop of rakish curls and a perfectly _cute_ grin, and an enormous predilection for the violin; perhaps when music was played I would suddenly freeze, awe-struck at the _brilliance_ of what I was hearing, and sway, eyes closed, to the perfection in my ears.

Or maybe I practiced endlessly so I wouldn't have to _talk_. Maybe I became a 'prodigy', as it were (the word is highly suspect, I assure you,) so I wouldn't have to set the table for dinner, or make my bed, or do that ridiculous stuff known as _homework._ What a waste of time school was, filled to the brim with imbeciles and their feeble-minded instructors. Mummy, bless her, let me stay home as often as I wanted, - which is to say, on a constant enough basis to scrape a passing grade. She does, however, have an alarming tendency to _never shut up-_ about gossip, nonsense, _complete and utter drivel_. I do believe I practiced with such ardor in an effort to simply _silence_ her. And Mycroft- poor, fussy Mycroft- got all the chores; all the work, all the nagging- because, you see, _I was the talent_. And I could play that card any number of times and always, always, _always_ come out on top.

**~0~0~**

She wakes with a sudden jolt, and a gasp of in-taken breath. Between heavy lashes, the first thing that Molly Hooper sees is the glare of the lamplight in an otherwise dark bedroom. She squeezes them shut, burying her head under the pillow, surreptitiously snagging her phone to check the time. _3:45_. _Obscene._ She knows what's coming, and wishes she'd thought to use earplugs that night. Not that it would help any.

" _Molly!"_ he groans, falling back onto the bed where she had been sleeping peacefully only moments before. And there'd even been a dream- an _interesting_ one with some mystery she'd just been on the cusp of unfolding- " _MOLLY!"_ he moans louder, jiggling his foot into her ribs.

"What." It's a scratchy, grumbly sound that issues from the depths of her throat- the type of tone that makes it perfectly clear that Molly is not a fan of early morning awakenings. The pillow is whipped off her head, and before she can scrunch her eyes more properly shut, she feels her nose being _flicked_.

"You…insufferable man-child!" she blurts, covering her poor throbbing nose and reaching for the comforter, which is unfortunately wrenched clean off her body. "What.. _what_ is it! It's absolutely too early for any of your wretched nonsense, prancing around in your dressing gown like you're king of the bloody flat.."

"Molly…" he whines, his black curls standing on end every which way. " _It's not in tune."_

There is a brief silence in which she glares daggers at him, before swinging her legs over the side of the bed and wondering for the umpteenth time why she loves this man. He stares at her in surprise for a moment, then jumps up beside her, dashing for his violin perched on the coffee table in the sitting room. "Mrs. Hudson is a saint," she grumbles, picking her way through the scores littered across the floor to sit huddled at the piano bench, robe pulled tight across her naked knees.

"But Mycroft isn't, we're just lucky he's sound-proofed his bedroom," he sniggers, before launching into the passage in question, playing furiously for a few moments, and then collapsing melodramatically onto the sofa. " _That_. It won't _be in tune,"_ he huffs, plucking idly at the A string before opening one eye to gauge Molly's reaction.

"I'm going back to bed." she says, after a moment of one-eyed staring contests.

"What- "

"Are you a violinist or a drama queen?" she asks him. His expression is one of utter horror compounded with dire offense, and somehow it makes him endearing, even when her exasperation has reached it's limit.

"I refu- "

"Answer truthfully, Sherlock, or I won't be your sounding board for a _week_."

He sighs mournfully, fixing her with a pointed glare. "That is beside the point."

"Is it? Is it _really_? Promise me you won't do this again! Once a month, max!" She is, he thinks, a tiny force to be reckoned with, and he wonders how he has become so reliant on her. On her ears, on her wit, on her epic coffee-making-skills; on _her_. So instead of answering he picks up his violin again and plays, slowly, through the passage. He can see her relenting, settling back into the dent he has left in the sofa, curling up with her eyes closed to listen to each note.

"That one. F#. A hair higher. And that last slide was appalling- anyway there's a rest wedged in there, you've completely skimmed over it. Now put that thing away and come to _bed_."

"No, we're playing during the ceremony tomorrow, I have to practice- "

"Sherlock, _it's already tomorrow_ , you know as well as I do that nothing you do now will change a thing! And John and Mary won't give a fig about a slightly low F#! It's the sentiment of the thing, you idiot, _now come to bed!"_

He knows, thankfully, when he's been beaten, and allows her to draw him into their room with one small hand in his.

**_From the Personal Scribblings of S.H._ **

Let me explain to you how it works, when I stand on the stage and play for _you_ , the audience: _it is not one-sided_. Oh, you thought you could just pay for your ticket, settle into a squashy chair and prepare for a good nap, did you? No, no, no. It goes both ways, which should be _quite_ obvious. Much as it grieves me to say it…but, _I need you_. You, the audience. You are essential to making a performance. The atmosphere is important, the venue is important, but _you:_ you hold the fate of a performance in your ungainly hands. The enigmatic realization of music lies soft and pliable within your cupped palms, the dimensions and texture of it reliant on your focused presence. If you're sleeping, I'll know. I don't have to look, but I'll know. If your mind is wandering, I'll know. If you're ripping up your program into origami-sized squares, _I'll know_. Because it is you, dear audience, that spurs me to greater heights. Your energy, your focus, as much as mine. If you listen, and are curious, it kindles within me the need to share the music with _you_ , instead of bottling it within my fingers and mind. The adrenaline begins to pump through me, and I will struggle with the need to control it- because even in the headiest of moments, there must always be control- my spine will straighten, and my bow will sing true: and it is _for you._

The hardest thing for a musician is the concert _where no one comes._ In this cesspool of a city, it is difficult to compete with the opera, the symphony, the movie theatre, the playhouse; the many many hundreds of events taking place under our very noses at a constant rate. And I will give it to you plainly: there is a backbreaking shame in looking out at the few pitiful faces of a slim an uncomfortable audience- to hear the rustling of sole programs and the stifling- or barely stifled- coughs of those who can barely keep their eyelids peeled open. And inevitably the music suffers at _my,_ the musician's, hand, from the need to smother the exhausting embarrassment and anger that threatens to break like a particularly violent wave. But you win some, and you lose some, and that is always a hard lesson to learn.

**_Three Months Ago_ **

We walk, glove-sheathed hands stuffed in pockets, among the crumbling graves. It's too cold to hold each other's hands, even if he would be in the mood to endure it. I wonder for the umpteenth time why we had to walk in _this_ particular graveyard, far as it is from the City, and hunched as we are in the brisk cold of early evening. He's on a mission, though, I can see that plainly- his ridiculous and lovely hat is pulled tightly over his ears, the strings tied neatly under his chin. Every time I look at him I smile- I can't help it, his scowl tight over his pale face is the perfect addition to that adorable hat.

We stop, finally, in front of a grave, evidently the one he's been looking for. A large, stone, Russian Orthodox cross looms up at us from the grey and chilly ground. _Sergei Rachmaninoff,_ it says. _April 2, 1873 - March 28, 1943._

'Oh, wow, that's- wow, Sherlock, that's Rachmaninoff's grave! I wish I'd- brought flowers, or something- why didn't you…' but when I turn to where he should be standing next to me, he's not there.

But I see the edge of his curls from the corner of my vision. And so I look down, to see him awkwardly perched on one knee, in the dirty ice and snow, with a little box held out to me. He looks nervous, for once in his life, and my eyebrows shoot about a foot up from my forehead as he slowly, unsteadily, opens the box. The ring nestled inside is clearly antique, and as my eyes take in the exquisite design, his mouth opens- "Molly Hooper," he says, and his voice is unsteady, "Molly. Will you…will you do me the honor of ma-"

"Wait!" I shrill, one hand flying to cover my mouth, teeth biting hard into my lip. He stops, jaw working and clearly uncomfortable with the cold seeping into his effectively ruined trousers. I reach down to him hurriedly, pulling him to his feet before they can get too soggy. "Just…stop. _Please,_ " I say breathlessly, covering his mouth with my brightly colored gloves.

" _Molly!"_ his muffled shouts make their way through my fingers, before he irritably pushes my hands away. "Molly, I was _propos- "_

"Yes, yes Sherlock I thought that was _fairly obvious- "_

"Then why on Earth- oh. Oh, I see," he says slowly, the hurt struggling to make itself plain on a face unaccustomed to outbursts of emotion. My fingers fall away from his lips and I roll my eyes at him, before looping my arms around his neck, bringing our faces as close as I can manage on tiptoe. "Don't be an idiot, love- just… _do it right._ "

"What do you mean, _do it right!_ I got down on my bloody _knee_ , and look at the state of my trousers," he fumes, wrinkling his nose. "And it's a good ring, too, my Grandmére's, and I've been assured the stone is of excellent- "

"Sherlock, you daft…ugh! It's a beautiful ring. Just beautiful. _But this is not the place_." I let the silence sink in around us, to see if he's getting it. And when his brows furrow, and he begins to pout, I know, with a sigh, that he's not. "It's…well, it's just not very _romantic,_ is it? With dead people all around? I mean it's lovely for a walk, and it's brilliant to see Rachmaninoff's grave, but- "

"But you _love_ Rachmaninoff!" he splutters, and I grin, cuffing him upside the head so his hat is askew, and he straightens it, grimacing. "Yes," I say, "Yes, I do. But a girl doesn't want to be proposed to at Rachmaninoff's burial site. No matter how much she loves Rachmaninoff." I kiss him quickly, where his curls meet his forehead, and at the corner of his mouth. His eyes narrow at me as he says, "This is completely pointless now." And I laugh at my ridiculous man, standing ramrod straight and glowering at the graves, as I wrap my hand into his, leaning my head on his shoulder.

"Yes, you ignoramus," I sigh, "But it's also _adorable."_

**~0~0~**

The first time he kissed me, it was a hard, surprised kiss; the sort of kiss that pops out abruptly, like there is no possible way that it could have lain as an unbidden idea any longer.

The first time I stayed the night, we lay cautiously, side by side, until he wrapped his arms around me. I relaxed into his solid warmth, and our tongues touched in a tentative dance. There were no fireworks, no exaggerated declarations of sentiment; only the soft exploration of curious hands and lips, the grazings of fingertips and the smoothness of palms against skin. Small sounds of surprise and and delight escaped the hollows of our throats, and our bodies settled into the comfortable molding of flesh against flesh. We coupled with no sense of grace, but only that of belonging- his caresses the tentative ones of a man who is unused to physical contact. Like unexperienced lovers, we fell into the oblivion of the night.

The first time he cooked breakfast, he used the microwave timer, the phone timer, and the egg timer, and the bacon, eggs, tea and toast were burned, runny, steeped to an overabundance of tannins, and singed, respectively. He frowned at the eggs and dumped the tea, and I cackled at him and ate it all.

The first time he called to take me on a 'proper date', it rained outrageously, and all the subways shut down. We spent two hours trapped in the smelly Bowling Green station- but he extended an open palm to mine, and I took it.

And when we realized that perhaps this was bigger than the two of us; that the simple gratification we earned in bickering with each other in a constant pattern of raised voices and lips pinched together in irritation- that this was _love_ \- well, then: I gave him my love; open, honest, and unassuming.

**~0~0~**

_Dinner: Chicken Tetrazzini, courtesy of the Italian take-away down the block. Lots of creamy mushrooms, parmesan measured in copious amounts; white wine runneth over in its abundance._

_Dinnerware: Classic Ikea._

_Dress: Ultra Casual. Pajamas and dressing gowns run rampant._

_Music: Don Giovanni, Mozart. Perhaps not the best of choices, but it will have to do as I find it absolutely redundant to get up again._

"Molly?"

"Hm?"

"This is a good dinner."

"Yes, yes it is indeed a _good dinner_ , Sherlock."

"Might I suggest that- " and here the little black box appears on the shoddy old table as if from nowhere- "that this might be the _opportune moment_ to ask- "

One eyebrow is raised, and the black box disappears.

**~0~0~**

"Sherlock, _come on._ "

"No."

She flops back onto the bed, breasts heaving in the complete and utter frustration of unrequited _want_. After a moment of stillness, where she lies toying with the ridiculous lingerie she had bought on Mary's suggestion- she's got half a mind to throttle Mary in her sleep for that horrible idea- she snakes an arm up and over his belly, feeling the smoothness of his skin against her palm. He darts an irritated look at her, before returning to the score he's poring over, pen in hand. "Your outfit," he says calmly, pausing his pen over a cluster of rests to write in a cue, "is superfluous. When the mood strikes me- and that is _not_ now- I would much prefer to see _you,_ and not some silky tripe stitched together by sweat-shop children in Bangladesh. Now if you would _desist- "_ and here he shoves her hand off his stomach- "I am _working_."

She is a woman of incredible patience, and apparently, also a woman possessing an infinite bounty of love; and perhaps it is a testament to this steadfast love that she does _not_ slap him right there and then, no matter how much of a complete arsehole the man her love is aimed at is. "Alright," she snaps, lurching up from the bed ripping the delicate mess of stockings and frills and lace up and over her head, throwing them across the room to land in a shuddering heap. "I'm naked _now,_ you bastard, so wake me up when you're done- working- and you know what, you could just _listen_ when we're rehearsing anyway so you don't have to write in _Every Damn Cue!_ Good night. I love you." Because she just can't bear to ever face a night of sleep without telling him, again. Even though he doesn't deserve it most of the time, the bastard. _Well_ , she thinks, rolling over and covering her head with the quilt, _I guess he deserves me, and I deserve him. For whatever it's worth._ And sleep claims her, blissfully, without a second thought to his most recent round of imbecility.

She sleeps with abandon, chasing the flickering colors of music around on the edges of dreams, grasping at thoughts almost formed; ideas of Sherlock flit in and away, tangles of black curls and blue eyes, and she almost forgives him, again, right there in her dream-

but then she _gasps._ Because it is _Cold! Wet!_ And she shrieks at the rude awakening- really, she should be used to it by now but- the _cold,_ cold flow of water rips her from sleep- the blankets have been torn away, and she squeals in absolute outrage at being naked _and_ cold _and_ WET. She has an absolute abhorrence of cold water, but there it is, puddling around her into pools of soggy sheets and, jumping up as there is nothing left to shield her, she stands eye to eye with him, and he looks _smug_ , the bastard. She glares accusingly at the water bottle lying empty and quiet on the floor, then back up at him, into his gleaming eyes. So she crosses her arms over her breasts and gives him the dirtiest look she can manage.

_**Two Weeks Earlier** _

"Ok, so this first part of the movement is actually a perfect canon."

"Molly, I'm not an idiot, I _know_ it's a canon."

"Could've fooled me, with your carrying's on."

He scrunches his eyes shut, inhales deeply, and turns to face me, his sorry violin and bow clenched in opposite fists. "Molly." he says.

"Yes, dearest," I say, barely withholding my smirk.

" _Would you play. Please_."

But I'm already rolling out that simple, beautiful melody, gently and sweetly. I play with a smile flitting around my face for all of a measure, before he enters with a blatantly different tempo. My smile vanishes into an eye roll. _"Sherlock,"_ I groan, settling my forehead onto the keys while he continues to pound out that stupid melody. "Poco mosso," I whisper to the piano. " _Poco mosso_ , you great enormous prat," my voice pitches higher and over his sound. "POCO MOSSO, Sherlock! POCO MOSSO is defined…" I scramble for my phone, "..is defined as less motion. _LESS_ motion. Altogether now, _Allegretto poco mosso,_ faster than Allegretto, less so than Allegro, with _less motion_. So take your _bloody_ diva violin tempos and throw them out the window!" I yell it over his shrieking fiddle, while he grins back at me.

"Oh I'm sorry, were you saying something?" the sound stops suddenly. He is all innocence, blue eyes open wide. If I keep up my eye-rolling, my mother will be proved right once and for all when they get stuck in that position.

"Are you ready to rehearse, Molly?" I shoot him a withering glance, and begin to play again. This time he follows me, and we putter our way through. Which is a shame, because it really is a gorgeous movement, and here he is _not listening_ , focusing solely on himself. That's the thing, with this Sonata: ready? _I have the hard part_. It's true, really, but violinists are _such_ divas. Ask anybody. And Sherlock is absolutely no different.

As we come to a close, I wince at his last note: he's shot way over the mark and it comes out a strangled sort of squeal. The scowl he produces is nothing short of murderous, and I carefully school my face into something I would hope is positive, but obviously he is not buying it. "What?" he snaps, and I sigh again, composing myself.

"Well, it was alright, but- "

"But _what?"_

My patience is wearing thin, and I bite down on my lip, hard, to keep from snapping back at him. "I just think- " I say it carefully, nonchalantly-

" _What,_ what, Molly, what! Spit it out!"

"Well I just think that if you _listened_ for once in your miserable life, instead of doing whatever it is you damn well _please_ , we might be able to make music!" I exclaim it to the air, and the sound of traffic below punctuates our silence. The sirens wail through the open window in their constant oppressive stream, and my teeth sink harder into my lip, waiting for the other stupid shoe to fall.

But he laughs. Thank _God_ he laughs, because I am in no mood to put up with his silent pouting just now. "I'll listen, then," he says, all high humor, his eyes lighting with the anticipation of a good challenge. "But you start, you know," he adds, flicking me an impish smirk- and I begin again.

It's times like these, as we work through the movement in a steady back and forth, that I realize just how far we've come.

_**Two Weeks Later, in a Cold and Soggy Bed** _

"What. The. _FUCK_. Is WRONG with you!" I gasp, and then again, for good measure, " _WHATTHEFUCKISWRONGWITHYOU?!"_

"I needed you to be awake for this."

"For _what_ , did you finally finish your scribbling and decide you're ready for _sex?_ Ugh, it's freezing- " and I charge off to the bathroom for a towel and my fluffy dressing gown.

"Come back, Molly!" he shouts after me. I glance at the clock. _2:45_. No surprises, no, not ever.

"No!"

"Molly!"

I spy a cold mug of tea on the counter and seize it on impulse, rushing back to the bedroom and flinging it into his face in righteous indignation. He doesn't bat an eye- except to wipe at the icy dregs of black tea- and it is then that I notice he is sinking slowly down to one knee. _Again_.

"Oh for Christ's sake, Sherlock, we're not going to do this _now_ , are we?"

He blinks slowly up at me. "Miss Hooper- " he begins.

"Don't you _Miss Hooper_ me- "

" _Miss Hooper_ , I rather thought you would have been made of sterner stuff." I stare at him for half a moment, wondering how on Earth I ever found this ridiculous human being and made him mine. "Well I had to make it _memorable_ , didn't I, since those other attempts seemed to fall flat? You're a funny one, Molly Hooper- and it certainly got your attention, didn't it? Now, _Miss Hooper- "_

"Love," I interrupt him. "Call me _love-_ just this once. Or, no, not _just_ this once but- well, I'm cold, and wet, and this is _not_ romantic- " but I can feel the smile cracking through my angry expression, and the queer little upturn at the side of his mouth tells me he sees it too.

"Molly- l-love, then," he stutters, and stands, looming over me. In one hand is that box, which he places in my hands. "Would you do me the honor of marrying me?"

And I know, _yes_ , since I've rebuffed him now three times, maybe four, if you count that time by text, that _yes_ , I would marry him; without a doubt, and always, a thousand times over. So I wind my arms around his neck, his bare chest warm against the fuzzy yellow cloth of my bathrobe, and look him sternly in the eyes. "Yes. Yes, I'll marry you, you absolute nightmare of a man."


	6. Poco mosso: A Wedding, Some Bells, and Ample Stupidity

**VI. Poco mosso: A Wedding, Some Bells, and Ample Stupidity**

She straightens his tie while he fidgets, his lips twisting into a scowl as she cinches the fabric tighter around his neck. "Ties are _useless_." he pouts, eyeing himself in the mirror. It's an atrocious thing that Molly's picked out, and he grimaces at his reflection. "I can't even _play_ with this thing on. You know," he says, turning back to Molly, who is straightening her own dress, smoothing out the wrinkles that are a casualty of cramped New York closets and careless treatment, "The _tie_ was invented by a woman." She raises her eyebrows at him, fingering the edge of her clearly visible underwear line. _Oh, this won't do at all.._ "Is that so," she murmurs. _I suppose that's what thongs are for, blast them to hell.._ He glances at her irritation, rolls his eyes and says, "Who _cares_ , just don't wear your knickers."

"Sherlock, _no_ , that's disgusting, what if I have to use the loo and- and- " she raises her eyebrows suggestively, and he shrugs.

"You're not listening," he begins again. " _The tie was invented by a woman."_

"I'm sure it wasn't."

"Ah, but you don't _know_. Anyway, it was invented by a _woman_ so she could have a noose wrapped comfortably around her husband's neck for quick, convenient murder, anytime she pleased. Easy to wrap around fans, rafters, etcetera. The _tie_ was made by the woman, for the man, to keep him in check."

She rolls her eyes at him in the mirror, and it is enough to make her thoughts clear on the matter. He wrinkles his nose in disgust and gives the whole thing up as a bad job. "Oh, look at the time…" she says, glancing at the clock. "Have you got everything? Your music?…Stand? Everything?"

They eventually hustle out of the flat, and he is overly aware that it is not the tie that is bothering him. She knows a _mood_ is brewing, as she shoots secret, silent glances his way. Their steps become the rhythm of his niggling irritation, slowly gaining substance if not direction. The thrum of his voice falls silent in his throat, and suddenly the idea of _weddings_ seems utterly distasteful. The tie tightens around his neck as his pulse quickens, and he can feel Molly staring at him. "Everything alright?" she asks him, too casually, and it annoys him.

He ignores her.

So she pinches her lips, and says no more.

Later, after John and Mary have said their vows, after the rings have been handed over and kisses have been exchanged, Sherlock and Molly stand to either side of them in an awkward and angry silence. It casts an odd air over the ceremony, and uncomfortable glances are shot in every direction, a web of bubbling resentment building over what should have been a joyous moment. _We're ruining it_ , Molly thinks, and sees Mary's smile tight as she grasps John's hand firmly. She should feel bad, she knows it, but she's too confused and angry with him to do anything other than stew in anxiety.

"And now, I think, we have a special treat from the best man and the maid of honor?" pipes the Minister after the applause has died down. "Sherlock and Molly, if you will?" She sees Sherlock nod tightly, and they make their way to the piano as the others find their seats in the old wooden pews, friends and family alike budging up to make room for the happy couple.

She smiles at him, hoping for _something_ \- she's not sure what she's done wrong, or what, in fact, is going on with him; all she knows is that he's reminding her of their relationship in it's early days, back when he was an enormous prick eighty percent of the time. When he meets her eyes and she sees that they are shuttered, she settles onto the piano bench and resigns herself to, yet again, another terrible performance. " _Do this for John and Mary,"_ she whispers under her breath, and hopes that the acoustics of the church won't let her voice carry. _"It's their wedding, and if you ruin this for them, so help me God, I will…"_ but he just looks at her, eyes widening slightly, and she hopes she's not imagining the ghost of a grin.

They're playing the fourth movement of Franck today, _Allegretto poco mosso._ It's the perfect piece for a wedding, and it's supposed to be a gift from them to John and Mary- what better than a gorgeous piece of music, intended to illustrate the joyous union of a couple in all its shapes and forms? But here they are, again with Franck, ready to botch the whole affair.

She begins the opening line, and her fingers are stiff and shaky- she hates playing when she's not properly warmed up, _especially_ something as hard as this. _Why_ _did I agree to do this..?_ She wonders for the tenth time that day.

But then he begins to play: no, he _joins_ her.

**~0~0~**

The thing about playing with Sherlock, or living with Sherlock, or _loving_ Sherlock, is that _there is never a dull moment_. He keeps you on your toes: one moment it is the highest of highs, full of laughter and excitement and roiling energy; and in the next instant he is withdrawn, unpredictable, and slamming a door in your face. It is exasperating, and exhausting, and if I didn't appreciate the genius that is his open and beautiful character, I would've given up on him ages ago. I love him, not because he is a brilliant violinist, or because he's- let's face it- an exquisite man, but because of his insatiable curiosity, his capacity for emotion, his inability to _stop-_ in essence, the qualities and traits that make Sherlock into _Sherlock_. And for this reason, I take the good with the bad, and I ride the rollercoaster that is our relationship into bouts of euphoria and exhilaration, but also into the darkest parts of his soul.

I have a secret, though: _it's worth it._ Because together, through the enigma that is our transience of time, we have become better _humans_.

So I hope to God he doesn't prove me wrong today.

**~0~0~**

She's not sure if she's ever heard him play like this. His line is gentle, following her lead, mimicking her phrasing in a swelling arc. The theme is swept between them, twining together and apart again, developing into accompaniment and melody, the rushing thrum of his notes punctuating her line. The music is sweet, and true, and slowly expands into the desperation of a love that is theirs. It is wild and raw, urgent and fierce in it's execution, the sort of music that is born of a nameless passion between humans. And at Molly's glance, he struggles to keep his face impassive; the untouchable man he had always seen himself as, before _her._ But she sees in him the reckless and impassive youth that she fell in love with, all those years ago. It is the odd thing about art: if words alone will not do, that connection can and _will_ be made through music, no matter how large the gulf. As the movement moves back to that simple tune, it brings with it a whiff of nostalgia, the fragrance of years past. He looks at her now, as they come nearer to the close, and she _knows_ there is a smile lingering in his eyes. He takes the last leap, and she takes the last chord, and as they bow slightly, beckoning for John and Mary to join them, he takes her hand.

**~0~0~**

They find themselves in one of the back rooms of the church, after the ceremony is ended and the guests have begun to meander slowly uptown to the reception. Molly leans against the desk in the room, watching him silently pack away his instrument. The air is awkward around them, and she takes a breath, breaking the silence. "Alright Sherlock, what the hell is going on with you?" The corner of his mouth twists, and she takes it as a good sign: at least he's listening.

"Did I do something? What? _What?_ Talk to me and quit being an arsehole!"

He pulls at his tie, loosening it and pulling it over his head before tucking it into his case.

"This isn't because I made you wear the bloody _tie_ is it?"

"No."

"Well, spit it out- "

He turns to her suddenly, and instead of the cold mask he's been wearing all day, she sees the man she created music with, just moments ago, staring back at her. "Molly," he says carefully, "Are you sure you want to marry me?"

She stares at him in shock, only slightly aware that her mouth is ajar. "Do you..do you _not_ want me to marry you?" she says in a small voice, before straightening her back and looking him straight in the eye: she may be a head shorter, but she is staunch in her resolve, and if their relationship has taught her anything, it is that she is _exactly_ his equal, and the other half to his puzzle. "No. No, you listen, Sherlock, don't you get all _cold feet_ on me, because I know it's _bullshit_. You have been proposing to me for months, and you forget one thing: _I know you_. And just because you're asking me some vague question right now, doesn't mean you don't want me in your life. So what is it, then?"

He's cowed by her outburst, she can see it in the odd quirk of his shoulders and shifting eyes, and he might even properly ashamed. _Good_ , she thinks.

" _Marriage_ ," he spits suddenly, "It's just so stupid, the entire enterprise, isn't it? Take John and Mary: they've just gotten married, they'll go on a short holiday, come back and then continue living together. So _why go through with it_? What's so special about it?"

It dawns on her then, and raises her hand to her mouth, smothering a giggle that she realizes too late is probably completely inappropriate given the circumstances. _"What?"_ he snaps, and she begins to laugh.

"You! It's you, you idiot, you're afraid I'm too good for you and one day I'll _wake up_ and realize I don't need to put up with your…your ridiculousness, or that I'll get sick of you dumping cold water into the shower to see if it'll make me hurry up, or, or, keeping all your projects and food experiments on the kitchen table, or the hysterics and silent treatments…." she trails off, as he stares mutinously into the corner. She can't help but laugh, when he looks so perfectly like a deer caught in the headlights of his own thinking. And so she snickers, and crows, "I've caught _you_ , for once!"

But he is not to be turned aside from his mood so easily, and with a glance that could usher the very raindrops back into their clouds, he growls, " _But don't you see,_ Molly, _your life is not your own._ It's _mine_ , too, and my life is _yours_. And if that thought is not frightening, _I don't know what is._ "

The silence has the chance, then, to surge upward and outward, to eat them whole in an uneasy embrace. But she knows his penchant for the dramatic, and she knows the danger of an artist without the easy grasp of communication. So she draws breath, and instead says, "I love you." It is the barest crack in the facade, and she draws closer, trying to catch his eye- but he looks away. She's not expecting him to say it back; no, those three words are never quite something he has learned to shape. But they're words, after all, just words; and she's never needed _words._ They have something better- something transient yet permanent, something that is shaped and molded every time their music whispers and weaves in a torrent of vibration. In short, theirs was a connection, a singular type of love constructed over the slow molding of time: a bond in music that was as sound in this world as it was in the next.

"Just promise me," she says, and it jolts him back to the present, his startling eyes meeting hers. "Please, don't _ever_ wear a tie again."

His lips quirk in the tiniest of grins, and the storm cloud of his brow breaks. And she knows, with sudden calm and brilliant clarity, that they would be just fine.

**A/N: The tie wasn't invented by a woman, and in fact has a very interesting history that you can bumble off to on Wikipedia if you're feeling so inclined. Sherlock was just trying to get a rise out of her, and in the process, managed to find himself in a full-on funk. I really hope you've enjoyed this, leave a review if you have a moment! Just an epilogue to follow. Thank you for reading!**


	7. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

"Alright, Ziggy," I say, as he seats himself carelessly at the piano bench, shoulders hunched in little boy acknowledgment of _I'd-rather-be-doing-almost-Anything-else-than-sitting-at-a-piano-lesson_. "Where's your notebook?" I rifle through his folder quickly and sigh- he's missing half of his music.

"It fell," he mumbles, his feet inching surreptitiously towards the pedals. He glances at me and I pretend not to notice.

"What do you mean, it fell? Fell where?"

"It fell out of my hands!" he exclaims, without an ounce of malice, blue eyes wide with innocence and only the hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock pauses on his way through the living room, the tie of his blue dressing gown trailing along the ground. "Well played," he says thoughtfully, "well played indeed.." before he disappears into the kitchen. The boy bursts into a fit of giggles and I sigh, wishing for the umpteenth time that the piano was in a more private space.

Later, when all the children have wandered out of the flat, leaving only trails of glitter across the piano bench to mark that _a princess dress has been here_ , I fling out what I've been thinking, and can no longer bear to keep locked up.

"We need a bigger flat," I say to him, over a hastily put together meal of Chinese takeaway and a bell pepper.

"Why're you cutting up a _pepper?_ " he asks instead.

"For veg, Chinese takeaway doesn't- and never _will_ \- count as veg."

"What, and it eat it raw? Like _that_? This whole procedure has a whiff of the distinctly barbaric."

"Eat. We need a bigger flat." I say again. He snorts into his noodles before elegantly wiping away the sauce that's curled up over his lip and landed dangerously close to his nostril.

"Why on Earth would we need a bigger flat?"

And there you have it, suddenly we have arrived at _that_ conversation, the one where babies and family and future and what-have-you crop up, and I can just see my dear man-child working himself into such a dire frenzy that he'll eventually lock himself up practicing through the night and on into the wee hours of the morning. So I sigh, and take a step back.

"Let's move to London. I'm so sick of this city."

He chokes. His eyes are wide, and he's chewing a little too franticly.

"Ok. Ok then, let's take a step back. Sherlock. Stop eating! Look at me. We can talk about something else. Where should we have the wedding?"

He sighs extravagantly, wipes daintily at his lips, and places his hands palm down on the table. "Oh, haven't you and Mary got it all sorted?" Too casual. I narrow my eyes at him. I like to think I can cow him, from time to time, but I know he's just laughing.

"Don't try to fool me, Sherlock. I know you've got half of this planned out already, locked up there," I say, tapping my head.

"Oh well, now that you mention it, I was rather hoping we could go back to Rachmaninoff's grave- "

" _No_ burial sites."

"A veto, then? Well, it was worth a try. Fine then. Botanical Gardens, with all the orchids. You like orchids."

I snort into my soup, and realize this is becoming a stupidly messy dinner. "Are you serious? You're serious. Look, unless you've got some secret trust fund hidden up your arse that I'm not aware of, _we don't have that type of money."_

Silence reigns for a full minute while he pokes nonchalantly at his food. I stare at him. He studiously avoids my eyes.

"Oh, my God. You HAVE? When were you going to tell me about this!"

"Wellll, actually, about now seemed like a good opportunity.."

"You're bloody well right it is! Christ! And I've been slaving away with these tiny idiotic children all this time! Ok…ok. So. How much are we talking, then?"

"I'm…not at liberty to say."

"What do you MEAN you're not at liberty to say! I'm your sodding _fiancé!"_

"I don't want to tell you," he grins at me, and shrugs. "Maybe after the wedding? Adds a certain amount of mystery to the whole affair, doesn't it? I might be a Lord and you just don't know it," he adds, wiggling his eyebrows outrageously.

I roll my eyes, and a laugh escapes my lips. "You're out of your mind, do you know that?" But he only smirks at me, and after a moment we both go back to picking at the now cold takeaway.

"How do we know, Sherlock? How do we ever know what to do? To stay here, to _not_ stay here, to get married…to have a kid…" He grimaces into his food, and I smother a smile. _Maybe too soon for that one._ But he lifts his head, and looks at me.

"We never know," he says simply, and somehow from him, it becomes a profound statement. It's the type of thing that underlines the many roads that lie under our feet, each to a different destination, but all with the constant of _us._ I hesitate a moment, before replying,

"I think…that we should take the chances that are dealt us. Because I have a suspicion, my love, that _our life_ is for the living."

**THE END**

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed it! It's been such fun working on this- I think it's actually the longest thing I've ever finished. If you haven't listened to the Franck Sonata yet, go listen to it! During the course of writing this, I've performed it 5 times, and should be recording it soon. It's an amazing, gorgeous piece.**

**Special thanks to Emma Lynch for taking the time to beta this for me! You are amazing, thank you thank you!**


End file.
